A semblance of dreams
by Liriel-eris
Summary: His head full of angels, death and eternal darkness, Erik just wanted to be left alone. The last thing he needed was the practical Miss Winterwood, who thought all the talk of darkness was silly and melodramatic, and who was determined to become a friend.
1. Prologue

A/N: This is a (very necessary) rewrite of the original fic which was a bit of a train-wreck. I found that, looking at it again, a lot of it made me cringe, and that there were all sorts of mistakes I had missed the first time, which nagged at me.

This is a Leroux/Kay Erik centric story. Mostly Leroux, though I have taken the Kay background, and merged some characteristics to create my own approximation of Erik. And I'm afraid I've borrowed the fire at the opera house from the 2004 movie-verse, because I quite liked the drama of it. I'm ignoring LND outright.

I've also meddled with the time line, setting the story in 1876. So the opera house had taken less time to build than it really had, and was opened in 1865.

This is an eventual E/OC, also featuring the R/C pairing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or anything to do with it.

**A Semblance of Dreams **

**Prologue **

**Spring, 1876**

"Erik is dead," read an advertisement in the _l'Epoque_ about two weeks after the chandelier disaster at the Paris Opera House. It had absolutely no meaning whatsoever to most of Paris, but there were those to whom it meant the world.

OOO

Erik knew that he could not remain in the house by the lake. Not and stay alive – which wasn't to say that he suffered from any particular desire to _live,_ but the Persian could be quite relentless. Nadir Khan's betrayal had angered Erik, but there was something he could not quite identify that stayed his hand from exacting swift retribution. Perhaps, Erik reasoned, he had finally grown old. Or maybe the whole business had left him so broken that one betrayal more or less did not particularly matter.

The Persian, for his part, was entirely unapologetic. But Erik knew that, had his old friend really wanted him dead, he would have betrayed the Phantom's secret earlier, and to deadlier enemies than the foppish Vicomte de Chagny. In fact, Nadir seemed quite determined that Erik remain alive: even as the Opera Ghost had tried to explain, though a mist of delirious joy, that Christine had let him kiss her, had cried with him, and that now he was content to die at last.

There was certainly something to be said for Nadir's persistence. Even under almost certain threat of death, Nadir could not help but return to the house under the opera. He claimed that he had come to check on his old friend and though Erik would never admit as much out loud, in was almost pleasant to have someone who refused to leave him alone to meet his death.

It had taken a lot of badgering for the Persian to successfully convince Erik that what he needed was time away from the opera house – from Paris, even.

"Take a holiday, my friend! See the world," Nadir had cajoled, refusing to break under the baleful yellow glare fixed on him from behind Erik's funereal black mask.

"I have seen it, Daroga, and I am too old to have any desire to subject myself to it again."

"Nonsense! One is never too old!" The Persian's eyes seemed to soften as he continued, "And you are younger than I, old friend, though you might not feel it."

At last, Erik let himself be persuaded. He had his own reasons, of that Nadir was certain, though he knew better than to press Erik for an explanation. Instead, Nadir went out and booked passage for two on a boat scheduled to sail for India that night.

Before leaving, Erik took care to publish the notice of his death. He could not help hoping that Christine would see it, that she would come back with his ring and bury him, as she had promised to do. It was, he knew, a fool's hope – the Persian had guardedly informed him that the young comte had taken his new bride far away on a lengthy honeymoon. Their destination was a carefully kept secret.

There had been rumours of course, but Erik suspected these of being red herrings planted for his benefit in case he took it into his head to search for them. The thought had crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He knew he had nothing to win by blind pursuit. Christine was lost to him, and he could not bear to look upon her again knowing that she would never be _his_ wife. He knew, deep down, that she would not see the advertisement.

The holiday was very much a temporary arrangement, as he had irritably informed the Daroga who, in Erik's opinion, was looking entirely too smug. Erik had every intention of returning to the opera house to resume his role as the resident Ghost, but first he would have to let them think he was gone for good. To grow arrogant in their confidence. And he would have to shift about his labyrinth. The underground tunnels and traps were a great feat of engineering and architecture, and subject almost entirely to Erik's whim. He would re-arrange his passages and reset his traps, making sure that no uninvited guest could set foot in his domain without encountering certain death.

Then he would resume his hauntings. A return from the dead was certain to instil a new degree of fear and trepidation at the _Garnier_.

Erik and Nadir had travelled through India and on to China, keeping almost entirely to themselves. Erik had no inclination to engage strangers in conversation, and Nadir honoured his friend's wishes. The Persian had quite enjoyed his break from the routine of Parisian life and spent much of his time in pursuit of artefacts for an antique shop he had recently opened in Paris.

In China, the Persian had come across a legend of an illustrious knife of unrivalled finesse. The Kun Wu blade was said to cut jade like melting butter. The Persian wished to learn more of this legend, and maybe search for the knife himself. Erik, too, had felt professional interest in this weapon. As a man who had once been reputed for his almost inhuman assassination skills, he could not help but wonder over the possibilities that came with such a weapon. After a good deal of listening to the locals and sieving through archives, they had come up empty-handed.

Their resumed camaraderie had been pleasant, but after four months of absence, Nadir had had to return to Paris. There was business to be conducted. Erik had scoffed at the Persian's new interest in odd artefacts, but that did not sway Nadir any. Many a potentially dangerous relic had passed through his hands in his years of service to the Shah. And who would have more success with such a shop than the Persian, notorious throughout Paris for his eccentricities. Besides, he had pointed out, many a grand tale from their past lay in some of the items he had reserved for display. While most of these memories could never be shared with others, he still enjoyed looking upon them. Erik had scoffed that he was growing soft in his old age. The Phantom would not, and perhaps genuinely _could not,_ admit to a single happy memory from his days in Mazenderan, tainted as they were with blood and pain.

On a rather cloudy, grey morning, Nadir had sailed for the French shores from the commercial Shanghai harbour. It would be a while before Erik would join him. Though the Opera Ghost was almost relieved by the respite from his depression offered by the Persian's incessant conversation, he would always remain a creature of solitude.

In China, no one had heard of the Opera Ghost and the locals were so used to European peculiarities that a mask would not draw as much attention. Erik could have at least some semblance of anonymity. He observed the culture and revelled in the variety of languages and dialects. Erik had always had an ear for language and had found the linguistic diversity to be almost a balm on the last shreds of his sanity.

He took particular interest in the music, so different from any that could be heard in the opera houses and music halls of Paris. The instruments, the scales and arrangements held his attention much longer than landscapes and vistas could ever hope to do. He did not remain in one place for long, preferring the timelessness of the small villages he passed through to the bustling Shanghai, with her restless merchants and crowds.

Had he any inclination to do so, Erik might have risen in power in Shanghai's unstable social pyramid, as he had once done in Persia. He had learned long ago that there was always need for a skilled assassin, and few could rival his natural genius in the field of architecture. He had learned his lesson however, perhaps too well, and he would never serve again. Hindsight was a remarkable thing, and he was well aware of the folly of the ambition of his youth. His only wish was to remain unnoticed and see if he would at last succumb to a shattered heart.

Erik's desire to pass unnoticed did not extend as far as his becoming prey for would-be attackers who disturbed his solitude and many met with the Punjab lasso. It was a cruel and dangerous world, after all, and he one of the greatest dangers in it.

He was also blind to the looks thrown his way by the bored wives and slave girls he passed on the streets. His unusual height, skeletal frame and mask did not fail to draw the eye.

He had tried to stay away from playing music after Christine had left him, and he couldn't bear the thought of singing a single note without his angel. But music had always had a lure for him that over-shadowed all else. It had always been with him even in the darkest moments of his life, and it was the one thing he could never lose.

It did not take long for music to steal back into his life, and when he played his violin and the mournful melody stretched and flowed around him like a living thing, he thought only of her. She was there, always there, as if their roles were reversed and she was suddenly the ghost and he the haunted. Even opium, that other steady presence in his darkness could not take away his memories, nor lift his fallen spirits.

He knew that he would be forever haunted by his love of Christine, for how could any other hope to take her place? Christine was the embodiment of perfection, even in her last moment of weakness and her horror at his professed devotion. Some things simply _were_, and there could be no changing them, no matter how far abroad one travelled.

After a year's absence, Erik returned to his house under the opera, and he found everything much as he had left it. His loneliness and longing still ate at his soul. His desolation was evident to the Persian when he paid a reluctant visit to Nadir's flat before retreating to his own abode. The Phantom impassively resisted all Nadir's attempts at gouging his mental and emotional states, his terse answers, when he chose to give them, shrouded in his customary bitterness. This left the Persian unsettled: no one knew Erik's capacity for cruelty, mayhem and desolation as well as he.

Watching Erik disappear into the night after their somewhat terse visit, Nadir couldn't help the heavy sigh that escaped him.

"Nothing short of a miracle can now save what is left of his sanity," the former Daroga muttered to his servant Darius, shutting the door and retreating to his sitting room, where he sat for some time, staring thoughtfully out the window into the dark street below.

Something had to be done.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Two weeks later the Persian was still at a loss about how he would go about helping his friend. Meddling in Erik's private affairs was a dangerous game, and required both a flawless plan and a delicate touch. Unfortunately, Nadir found himself somewhat short of ideas. Still, he knew that he had to at least try to free the Trap-Door Lover from the prison of his own mind. He was beginning to hear whispers from the bowels of the opera that the Ghost was back and up to his old tricks again, more relentless that ever.

He thought Erik could use a distraction. A puzzle or an aggravation of some sort would do him and the opera staff some good, though he could think of nothing that could hope to hold the Phantom's interest for very long. It was a very chilly winter morning. Snow had fallen and business was particularly quiet, as could only be expected given the weather.

Nadir was seated behind the counter at the front of the shop. He wore his bronze-framed spectacles and was crouched over a thick ledger, pencil in hand and a frown of concentration on his face. The former Daroga of Mazenderan hated doing the books.

He looked up, startled out of his concentration when the door of the little shop jangled and a gust of cold wind blew into the shop, disturbing the cocoon of warmth around him.

A young lady had entered the shop, wearing a dark woollen cloak over her dress and a hood over her bonnet. She paused a moment to remove the hood and her gloves before proceeding further into the shop and smiling a greeting at Nadir. She was rather pale, though her cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, and Nadir was impressed that she had braved the weather at all.

Straightening and removing his spectacles, the Persian returned the friendly smile.

"Good morning, mademoiselle. How may I be of assistance?" he enquired politely, grateful for the distraction from his ledgers.

OOO

Miss Hero Winterwood had come across the little shop quite by accident. She had been in search of a likely place all morning, and had just about decided to give up, when she saw it. _The Treasure Chest_ had caught her attention by its window display, which was full of old paintings, strange boxes and objects which she could not quite identify. It seemed very much the sort of place she had been looking for, and she decided to go in.

Hero's intentions were quite simple. She wished to find a buyer for an antique jewellery box she had liberated from a marquis near La Vendee. The man had been rather odious and overly persistent with his attentions, but Hero thought the box might just be worth the trouble. She was exceedingly glad to find the little shop – for one thing, it looked to be very warm inside.

She had just pocketed her gloves when the tall Persian man at the counter wished her a good morning. He had the easy manner of the proprietor about him and she instantly liked the intelligent light in his eyes.

"And to you, monsieur," she replied to the Persian's greeting. "I certainly hope that you can help me. I dread to think that I have navigated the snow for nothing." The hem of her skirts was beginning to soak with melting snow and she was very eager to get back to the rooms she had rented for the night.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, I myself would be very reluctant to venture out." The Persian shot an amused look outside the window, before returning his attention to Hero. "And how may I help you, my dear?"

"I'm looking to sell an artefact. It's an original Jacques Grenville." Hero produced the box from a pocket in the recesses of her dress and set it before the Persian. The man regarded her with a raised eyebrow, before producing a looking glass from one of the drawers in the counter and gingerly picking up the box to examine it.

To the uninitiated eye it would seem as nothing more than a prettily carved box. It was cherry wood, octagonal in shape, with rose patterns carved delicately into the lid and decorated with fragile silver filigree and mother-of-pearl. Nadir, however, had an excellent memory for detail, born of years of police service and he had seen the likes of this box before. It was a Pre-Revolutionary relic; early seventeenth century and quite rare. Grenville boxes supposedly had a trick lock, he remembered, a tiny needle that introduced venom into the blood of the potential thief. He wasn't sure he believed that. He did not open the box. Instead, his eyes darted to the young lady before him.

He had had sad experience of people selling family keepsakes, but she did not look to be in any trouble or financial straits. She did not appear at all emotionally attached to the box.

"This is indeed a Grenville, as you say. But they are very rare. I must ask, how did you come to have it?" he asked urgently, scanning her face. Something akin to amusement flashed across her features and a corner of her mouth quirked up slightly.

"Ah, monsieur, that would be telling, wouldn't it? I'm afraid I cannot answer you. I assume you can appraise me of its worth?"

The Persian sighed. It was certainly a rare acquisition, though that same old police instinct caused him to doubt the girl's rightful ownership of the thing. He thought a moment.

"Very well, my dear. Then I must ask whether you have the key for it, also."

Hero nodded and produced a slender silver key with a matching filigree handle, which she had placed on a thin chain around her neck.

"I daresay that the key is not such a necessity as legend would have us believe," said Nadir as he accepted the key and used it to carefully open the box, revealing the silk lining inside.

Hero chuckled softly and shook her head. "There I can confidently say that I'm afraid you are mistaken, monsieur. And I suspect you are not so sure yourself, else you would not have waited for the key."

He regarded the young woman carefully for a moment, surprise quickly replaced by curiosity.

"There is a trick to it, you know," she continued. "One can force it open without the key and avoid the venom if one only knows where the release lever is located. It's this one here, if you want to know, where the two roses overlap." She indicated the carving in question with a careless wave of her fingers. "That should deactivate the needles located in each of the eight corners and save you the trouble of having to die from the poison."

"I see. And you wouldn't happen to know the sort of poison that it is supposed to contain?" His eyes were fixed carefully on her face now.

"Distilled viper venom, I believe, though I don't know the exact specifications. I understand it gives the victim the sensation of freezing slowly from the inside. Quite unusual. All in the nervous system, of course. You might recognise it, monsieur, it was quite common in Persia."

His eyebrows rose. "I do. I was chief of police there and, as you say, the venom saw quite a lot of use. It is a very disturbing thing to witness, mademoiselle. I wonder, though, how you would know of it."

"I travel a lot, monsieur." Her reply made quite plain that she would divulge no more, and yet Nadir suspected there was quite a lot left unsaid about how she came to have the box.

"Indeed. Well, I can pay you a third of what it is worth now, for I do not have the rest of the money with me. I shall have to write to my bank. You can leave it with me now and return, or else you may wish to come again. It is quite valuable and you may not want to leave it."

Hero pretended to consider this, though she was quite keen to be rid of the box as soon as she could before anyone tried to claim, or possibly reclaim, it from her.

"Very well, I shall leave it with you, monsieur," she said at last.

The Daroga was surprised again, though he nodded solemnly. "Then you have my word that you shall have your full payment no later than two weeks' time."

Hero nodded her agreement. Nadir went into the back room and returned with the correct amount a moment later, writing out a receipt in a neat handwriting.

"You seem quite sure of my word, mademoiselle," he observed when he'd returned.

"Sometimes all a person has is their word," she replied softly, as she retrieved her gloves from a pocket, reluctant to leave the warmth of the shop. Nadir was momentarily startled by her reply, wondering where he might have heard those words before.

They were both silent for a moment, and Hero took advantage of the silence to look about the shop.

"There must be fascinating stories behind some of these things," she said, examining an intricately decorated hand mirror.

"Ah. Yes, I believe there are. Most of the collection you see here at the back of the shop is tied to one story in particular," Nadir replied, watching her carefully.

"What story is that, monsieur?"

"Why, to the disaster at the _Opera Garnier_, which took place not two years ago. If you had gone past the opera house, you would have seen that it is being restored. That is because of a fire that took place there. The restorations are well under way, but most of the building is still in shambles. They discovered some interesting wares clearing the third basement and decided to sell them. They need the funds, you see. Opera is an expensive and, I understand, somewhat unprofitable business. They rely heavily on patronage. The principal patron of the _Garnier_ is away at the moment, and in his absence they receive only a specified monthly amount which, combined with what the owners are able to invest in it, is hardly enough for the restorations at hand."

"How tragic," Hero murmured politely, though the affairs of the opera held no interest for her.

"It is. Though I cannot help but wonder at the legend behind the tragedy."

Hero thought she saw a strangely calculating expression flit across the older man's face.

"Legend?" she prompted, because despite herself she quite liked legends.

"You must not have been in Paris long, my dear, else you are bound to have heard the strange tale of the Opera Ghost. Some say the ghost burned down the _Garnier_ in a sort of demonic fury. Others claim he was not a ghost at all, but a man. It was his obsession with a soprano, the new prima donna, which led to the disaster. There was a confrontation between the ghost and the lady's suitor, the young Vicomte de Chagny. The ghost cut the chandelier over a full auditorium, and the resulting fire had almost burned down the opera house." He didn't mention the gunpowder barrels in the basement – Nadir knew better than to give even a hint of his own involvement in the whole ghastly business.

"No, I've certainly not heard about _that_. I'm afraid I've just arrived in Paris from London this week. Could it not have been an accident? A fault in the gas lighting perhaps. But surely not a ghost. I quite agree that, if anyone was involved, it must have been a man. There is no such thing as ghosts, monsieur."

"Perhaps not. I rather think it is all part of a mystery which shall probably never be solved." The Persian gave her a concerned smile. "I hope I have not put you off our city. May I inquire as to your name, my dear?"

Hero seemed to consider him a moment before nodding briskly. "Winterwood," she informed him simply.

"And I am Nadir Khan, the proprietor of this little shop. Ah, but I fear I am keeping you with all my talk – it has been such a quiet morning's business otherwise. Do forgive me, my dear."

"Not at all. I shall see you in the next two weeks Monsieur Khan." She put her hood up over her bonnet again. "Good morning."

"Good morning." He watched her as she left the shop, crossed the narrow street and hailed a hansom. There was something peculiar about the young woman he was certain, though he could not quite put his finger on precisely what it might have been that had caught his notice.

OOO

Nadir Khan had been very right in his supposition. Hero Winterwood was not at all what she appeared to be.

As she left the shop with enough money to last her at least through the next month, Hero had every intention of disappearing, if only for a while. It was the prudent thing to do, given her activities in the preceding month and her habit of annoying exactly the wrong sort of people. Hero was not usually in the habit of hiding out, but her enemies had suddenly become many and they could be very inconspicuous when the need arose. Fortunately, so could Hero. Nadir Khan had given her an inkling of an idea with his story of the opera house. The bustling theatre, more chaotic than ever in the midst of reconstruction, was an ideal place to disappear.

She was also slightly curious, a trait her mother had never approved of. Hero liked mysteries, particularly ones that appeared to have to solution. And since her parents were at home, on the other side of the English Channel, she had no one to stop her from indulging her curiosity.

Her parents, the Baron and Lady Dalrymple, were unlikely to approve of their daughter's idea of an appropriate past-time. Pilfering and intrigue were not at all the sort of things proper young ladies got involved in. It amused Hero to picture her mother's expression, were she to hear that her elder daughter was running around France, of all places, entirely unchaperoned. Her parents believed to be her visiting her ailing great aunt Clara in Ireland, with whom Hero was, by all accounts, very close. Aunt Clara was not ailing in the least, but she had been widowed at a young age with no children and had had time to develop rather liberal ideas about life. She also had a warm affection for her great niece, and so she was quite content to let her nephew and his wife believe Hero to be staying with her.

Lady Dalrymple would never dream of her daughter seeking lodgings and employment at an opera house. Her clever enemies, Hero was sure, would not think to look for her there either.

The hansom drew to a halt outside on the _Place de l'Opera_ and Hero paid the driver, thanking him for assisting her down the slippery step off the carriage and onto the street. Most of the snow had been cleared outside the opera, and only a thin layer dusted the cobble stones. Hero was unable to keep a bit of admiration off her face as she turned and took in the grand building before her. It was built in the baroque style, with columns and arches decorating the front façade. She squinted up at the roof, despite the snow that was still falling. A blue-green cupola sat on the roof, capped in bronze and decorated with gilding. A gilded Pegaus adorned either side of the roof, and a statue of Apollo holding a golden lyre rose at the apex. Charles Garnier's creation was certainly magnificent, she decided. As she made her way towards the main doors of the opera she felt quite enthusiastic about her plan.

Hero had always half-suspected it was largely the monotony of her careful upbringing, and perhaps the adolescent desire to annoy her mother, that had first led her to pilfering little things like handkerchiefs from her mother's visitors at the house. To her surprise, Hero found that she was quite good at it. It was anything but boring, and far preferable to embroidering samplers, at which she was no good and which only made her fingers bleed every time she was clumsy with the needle.

As she grew older, she had devised means to escape the confines of the house, thanks largely to her aunt Clara, and before she knew it, Hero had found herself facing some of the darker realities of the world she had chosen to explore. There had been the few months' tutelage in the art of assassination. Her tutor had been a man with quite a maverick reputation in his particular line of work and he had taken on a female student out of what Hero suspected to have been a fit of pique and contrariness. He had taught her well, but it did not take long for her to realise that that life would not suit her. It took her longer to realise that neither would he. The falling out had not been an easy one and Hero had chosen a life of adventure instead. All very secret, of course, and carefully separate from the life she led at home, but it was not a choice she regretted. She could never have been content to become an angel in the house, as young women of her station were often expected to do, or at least to _appear_ to do.

No one paid her any mind as she entered the opera house. She climbed ten steps and passed through a set of doors into a small vestibule, which was also decorated with statues. She could make out a likeness of Handel, and Gluck, having stared at their portraits on the covers of music books as a child. At the time, she remembered, she had taken a particular dislike to Handel, whom she had been forced to learn about when she would much rather have been out on the lawns, enjoying a fine summer day. The other statues she did not recognise.

Hero proceeded on into the next vestibule, which housed ticket booths and through that into a larger hall. She paused a moment to take in the majestic staircase in the vast entrance hall, admiring the marble and more gilded statuary. A few people hurried irritably past, interrupting her inspection. She was just another figure in a crowd of people who, at first glance, appeared to be milling about without direction. Hero wondered where one was supposed to go to inquire about employment. Since no answer was forthcoming from either staircase or statuary, and the people around seemed too harassed to interrupt, she decided to head down the passage to her left. She was just about to commence her search when some kindly soul took pity on her.

"Are you lost my dear?" asked a middle aged woman, coming to a halt before her, her arms piled high with fabrics of various colours.

Seizing on her opportunity, Hero smiled at the woman. "Yes, actually, madame! I'm here to enquire about a position and I'm afraid I don't know where to go."

"Ah, yes. It can be a little overwhelming, can't it? But that's opera for you. It's always been this chaotic you now, though some will tell you it's the rebuilding that's to blame. But not to worry, I'll take you through where you need to go."

Hero thanked the woman, and offered to help her carry the fabrics.

"Now, usually you would go to Monsieur Remy, he is Monsieur Richard's secretary and he does the hiring. But I've been to see him myself this morning and he is quite run off his feet this week, and so you shall go directly to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin. Not to worry though, my dear – they are perfectly pleasant gentlemen," the woman informed her as they pushed their way through the bustle and up some ordinary stairs.

The offices of Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin were situated deeper into the opera, an area which had suffered greater damage from the fire than the entrance hall. The walls were still darkened and new carpet was being laid down to replace the old.

They drew to a halt outside the first door on the right, and the woman knocked politely.

"What is it?" asked a voice from the inside, with a pained sigh.

The woman opened the door and went inside, Hero following behind.

"Yes, Madame Collot, can we help you?" asked a big man in a neat frock coat. His voice was weary. He eyed the piles of fabrics she and Hero were carrying. "I hope it's not another mishap in the costume department? I'm not sure we could _afford _another mishap."

"No, no, Monsieur Richard. It's nothing like that. I have only come to show this young lady to your offices. She is interested in asking after a job."

"Ah, I see. That's much better. I'm sure she won't come to be nearly so expensive as replacing all that damaged velvet again." The fixed Hero with a look as if to ascertain that she wouldn't somehow cost him any more thousands of francs in damages.

"Quite," said Mme Collot, a little disapprovingly, before turning to Hero and relieving her of the fabrics. "Now, I must be on my way. It was nice to meet you, my dear. Good luck."

Hero thanked the woman warmly as she left the office, and turned to the managers. Richard sat tiredly at a desk, looking glumly at a stack of receipts, while Moncharmin, a smaller, nervous-looking man, appeared to be poring over some half-burnt papers.

"So you are here in search of employment, mademoiselle?" asked Moncharmin, setting aside his papers.

Hero nodded. "Just so. My name is Hero Winterwood – "

"An Englishwoman?" Richard asked, without much interest.

"Yes, I have only been in Paris a few days."

"Really?" said Richard, looking back at his receipts. "Well then go on, Mademoiselle Winterwood, tell us what position you are looking for. We've no time for dilly-dallying, you know!"

Hero couldn't help a small chuckle. "Yes, quite right. Forgive me. Well, I didn't have any particular job mind. I wasn't entirely sure what was available."

"Nor are we, in this chaos, mademoiselle. You're not a singer, are you? Or a ballerina? If so, it would be the chorus master or the ballet mistress you'd need to speak with," Moncharmin said hopefully.

"I'm afraid not."

"Ah," he looked slightly disappointed. "Well, we can always use more hands around here, so I suppose we can put you to work _somewhere_. Remy would be the fellow to ask, but he's off arguing with that dratted acting-manager. Richard? Can you think of anything?"

Richard was not happy to be pulled away from his papers. "Send the girl to Mme Collot, since they've made friends already. She was just around here last week, buzzing about needing an assistant."

"Hmm. Yes! There's a plan." Moncharmin noticeably brightened, looking at Hero again. "Well, there you go, my dear. Off to Mme Collot with you, first thing tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp. She runs a tight ship!"

"Indeed." Richard fixed Hero with another gloomy look, "but you must understand, mademoiselle, that until our patron returns, your pay will be minimal. We need the funds for the restoration."

Hero nodded, "I have some funds that ought to supplement my pay until then."

Richard seemed to cheer up at the prospect of minimal pay.

"Well, in that case, mademoiselle, welcome to the opera. You shall reside here if you've no objections. Your work days will be long, and it wouldn't do for a young lady to be making her way home late after dark. Some of our staff have rooms at the opera. And the younger members of the _corps de ballet_. Return tomorrow with your luggage and we shall find you a bed."

"Thank you, Messieurs."

The managers nodded dismissively. "Then we shall see you tomorrow," Moncharmin said as way of a farewell, waving her out the door.

With a nod at the pair, Hero left the offices and headed out. She glanced at the cobwebs, charred walls and unpolished wooden floor where the new carpeting had yet to be laid down. Hero was feeling quite pleased at her unexpected bout of luck, especially given that she would be spending more time at the opera than she had expected.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A week later, Hero found herself getting used to the chaotic routine of work at the opera. She had been found an available cot in one of the rooms housing live-in members of the ballet corps. The rooms were dark, and shabby, situated a few floors below ground, deep in the opera house. There were no windows, and the beds were very narrow. Hero could see why those dancers who could afford it chose to reside out of the opera. Most of the corps, however, particularly the junior members, and the young girls sent to the opera to begin their studies, lived on the premises.

Madame Collot, who proved a very pleasant, if somewhat reserved woman, had put Hero to work straight away, carrying fabric, and running errands, and fitting the cast members for the upcoming production of _Rigoletto._ It was a daunting task, given that she sometimes had to cover what felt like all seventeen of the Opera's floors in carrying out one of Mme Collot's errands.

As she walked down the small, wobbly street towards a nearby bakery, Hero contemplated the fact that despite being run off her feet by the costume mistress, she was rather enjoying the chaos. The opera house was like a large, working machine, or perhaps like a city, completely removed from the world outside, alive with its own unquenchable spirit. As if it would draw you in and never quite let you go, after. None the less, she was glad to have been given the morning off.

In general, Hero struggled to awaken early, and as she walked through the snow, she reminded herself that her efforts would be well-rewarded. The sun was yet to rise, and Hero felt more than a little dizzy as she tried to focus on her goal. She even nodded a genial greeting at an elderly gentleman who had been out walking his terrier and had tipped his hat at her politely. Usually, Hero would have been rather unpleasant towards anyone who ventured to wake her before half eight, especially in the heart of winter, but this was definitely an exception. She knew she would have been angry with herself if she happened to oversleep.

Her ultimate goal was one familiar to many Parisians: Hero was out in search of chocolate. Not just any chocolate, of course, but of the sort to be found in the finest bakeries of the city. Every Thursday morning, Mme Sully, a rather temperamental baker, would set a tray of freshly made chocolate éclairs on the tiny counter of her little shop. Hero had been told of the place by the proprietess of the hotel she had stayed in the week before her job at the opera. Having listened at some length to the lady's tales of Mme Sully's culinary magic, Hero was determined to find out for herself whether the landlady had been exaggerating.

Seeing the delicate pastries through the glass window of the bakery, Hero thought that she might just have found a new favourite indulgence. She had always had a weak spot for éclairs. There was something sinfully delightful about the sweet pastry, filled with the lightest cream and covered with the fine dark chocolate, slightly melted.

Brushing a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, she hurried towards the glass doors of the bakery, which was lit with the inviting warm glow of gas lamps. A few customers were already milling about, and some were drinking their morning coffee at a few tables Mme Sully had thoughtfully set out inside her shop.

Closing the door behind her as a bell alerted the baker of the arrival of another customer, Hero closed her eyes and inhaled the heavenly scents.

"Good morning, mademoiselle. How may I help you?" Mme Sully was tall, thin, and she wore a rather pinched expression on her face.

Hero smiled charmingly. The baker's expression as somewhat disapproving, though Hero supposed if she had to rise at three o'clock each morning, she wouldn't be too merry either.

"I will have a dozen of the éclairs, please, madame," the young lady requested, fishing a purse out of her dress pocket.

With a brisk nod, the woman obliged. Hero carefully counted out the appropriate coinage, her fingers chilled stiff despite her woollen gloves, as the baker regarded her over the cardboard box of pastries she held, fairly radiating impatience.

Taking the box, Hero thanked the baker, cheerfully ignoring the woman's glum expression. Rather reluctantly, she headed back into the cold. Fighting the temptation to sample the delectable pastries, she clutched at the rough string keeping the box closed, with one black-gloved hand as she walked back towards the opera. The air was crisp, and the cold wind bit at her face, but she found herself enjoying the pre-dawn still of the morning. There was something almost enchanted about the silent world just before sunrise, glimpsed while most Parisians were still blissfully asleep in their warm beds.

The thought of sleep and beds made her yawn, and Hero knew that, enchantment or no, she still preferred to spend her pre-dawn hours asleep.

As she neared the opera house, other people began to emerge onto the streets. Apart from a few shop owners and beggars, there were also small groups of youths standing about here and there, talking quietly amongst themselves. She knew that she must look quite unusual, as a primly dressed young lady traversing the dark streets alone at odd hours of the morning. However, she felt quite safe, knowing that between herself and the average thug or pickpocket, she was likely to come off the more dangerous of the two.

It did not take very long for her to find her way back to the opera house. She took one of the side doors on Rue Scribe, knowing that the staff-entrance off the _Cour de l'Administration_ would not yet be open, and walked along a poorly lit corridor, then down a set of creaky, narrow wooden steps and along another shadowed corridor. The building was very still around her. She chuckled softly to herself, thinking that it was just like a scene out of one of the Gothic novels her sister, Lavenna, was so fond of reading. Bronte, perhaps. Hero quite liked the Brontes. She didn't think she had enough melodrama in her soul to be a Radcliffe heroine. The ballet girls, or rats as they were called at the opera, were quite another story. In the past two weeks, Hero had already witnessed a myriad feuds and swoons and other little dramas.

Despite her Gothic musings, Hero made it to her dormitory without any kidnapping attempts by greedy, wicked relations or mysterious would-be suitors. Carefully opening the door, so as not to wake the girls who were still asleep, Hero made her way to her own bed, in the corner furthest from the door. She could hear the light breathing of the girl in the bed next to hers. Germaine had been the first to introduce herself when Hero was shown the room. Hero set the box on the coverlet and took off her cloak, which was wet with melted snow. She hoped the small fireplace at the other end of the narrow room would be sufficient to dry it.

As the scent of the éclairs began to carry across the room, Germaine turned over in her sleep, opening one eye and mumbling something about pointe shoes. She sat up groggily in bed, trying to see in the dim light coming from the fireplace. Her eyes settled on the box resting innocently on Hero's bed.

"Good morning. You're up early," commented Hero. Germaine was usually no more a morning person than Hero herself.

"Yes. You've made it rather difficult to sleep, sneaking in pastries at such ungodly hours."

"I _do _apologise. Shall I take my leave?"

The other four girls were beginning to stir around the room.

"Oh no, don't you dare! There's no getting rid of me now. What were you doing up so early?" the ballerina asked as she stretched, eyeing the box.

"Getting breakfast."

"Oh? Well, now that you've disturbed my sleep, you'll have to share." Germaine attempted to rise out of her bed, but she was still not fully awake and she tripped over the hem of her long nightgown, making a thud as she fought for balance.

"Why are making so much noise? Is that chocolate I smell?" asked Jammes, a small, blonde girl from the bed closest to the door. Her name was Cecile, Hero learned in her first few days, but everyone at the opera called her by her surname.

"If you smell chocolate, then so do I," piped up Suzanne, already sitting up in her cot.

"It seems Hero had taken it into her head to go out and buy pastries this morning," said Germaine.

Jammes raised an eyebrow, and Hero could only imagine the theories forming in the little ballerina's mind about what Hero had really snuck out for so early. Jammes was known for her fondness of gossip, and her wild suppositions about secret liaisons and midnight trysts.

The last girl to wake up was Meg Giry, who tied her dark hair back with a ribbon before coming to sit on Germaine's bed.

"I suppose no one objects to a bit of breakfast, then?" Hero asked brightly. She had suspected that chocolate was exactly the way to go about cementing her new friendships.

"Not at all!" Jammes replied enthusiastically.

"Madame Dubois might," chuckled Suzanne, seating herself comfortably at the foot of Hero's bed. Madame Dubois was the ballet mistress, who had a very strict approach where her dancers were concerned. With the opera undergoing restorations, the ballet school had been suspended and no practices held until about a month previously. The corps was much depleted. After the fire some of the girls had gone home to their families, and most had not yet returned. Even the prima ballerina was missing, Jammes had informed Hero in a hushed whisper at a costume fitting the day before. Why she felt whispering was necessary, Hero never learned because at that moment the Hero had been called away to pick up an order of tulle for Mme Collot.

"Yes, Hero, Mme Dubois would surely have your head for corrupting us with pastries!" laughed Germaine. "She's always making sure we don't ruin our figures in the staff canteen."

"As if that were possible," said Meg. The refectory food, while priced quite reasonably, was often rather inedible. Meg made it a point to dine at home with her mamma whenever she could. Mme Giry was one of the many box keepers employed by the opera, and Meg often bragged about her mama's roast chicken.

They continued to chat until there were no more pastries left and it was time to dress. Hero found that she like the ballet girls. They could be very loud and melodramatic whenever the mood struck, and they had a very operatic view of life, which Hero supposed came from having spent most of their lives training in the opera ballet school. They spent a lot of their spare time speculating on romances and fighting their own little feuds, which Hero couldn't begin to understand because these sometimes went back along several generations of dancers, and they could be rather mean to their dressers and coiffeurs, but Hero found herself enjoying their lively company.

Once dressed they made their way to the upper levels of the opera, preparing to resume their respective duties. When she had first arrived at the dormitory, Meg had asked if Hero would be joining the corps.

Hero had been very amused by this. "Ah, no. I think I'd better stay Mme Collot's assistant. I rather think I'm too old to start learning ballet," she'd replied. She was also the wrong build. The ballerinas were all very slight, and Hero was sure that she towered over them.

"I'm afraid that you are, yes," Meg had laughed. "I assumed you were a dancer, because they would never dream putting any of the chorus down here – they all claim it would _ruin_ their voices, and the principal singers tend to have their own accommodations."

"Well, what _about_ singing? Can you sing at all? You could join the chorus. They have proper windows in _their _dormitories," Suzanne had groused.

"My great aunt Clara always says that everyone can sing - it's just a matter of how well. She's a very sweet creature. The music tutor my mother hired for my sister and I, on the other hand, disagreed with my aunt strongly and at some length. I'm afraid I shall never be a diva."

"Neither was Christine at first," Jammes had commented, seemingly without thinking. A hushed silence had then fallen over the ballet girls.

"Christine?" Hero had been confused. She'd noticed that they all looked as though someone had broken a mirror. The rats had exchanged doubtful glances, and Hero had moved to sit in an old armchair. She could always sense a story.

"Haven't you heard the story of the… well… the _Opera Ghost_?" Meg had whispered. She'd leaned forward on her bed and her dark hair had fallen dramatically over her thin face.

"A ghost? I might have done, in passing," Hero had said, still feeling baffled. She'd remembered the story Monsieur Khan had told her in his shop, the one that had given her the idea of going to the National Opera in the first place.

"Ssh!" Suzanne had hissed "Don't say it so loudly. He'll hear. And it's not a ghost. It's _The_ Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera."

"Really, Suzanne! Don't be a fool. Everyone knows that he's been dead for _months_!" another ballerina had interrupted and rolled her eyes at Suzanne.

"How can a ghost be any more _dead_? And how do you explain the rumours that the managers are receiving notes again, Vivienne?" Suzanne had retorted.

Vivienne had shaken her head. "Let's not start this debate again. It's getting late, I'm going to get dressed. I'll see you all in the practice room."

Hero had since learned that Vivienne and Suzanne were quite often bickering about _something_, and Vivienne's friends, Rosalina and Josephine, tended to take her side. Vivienne'a grandmother had never forgiven Suzanne's grandmother for stealing a very promising beau right from under her nose when they had been dancers for the National Ballet together as young girls, tempers had anything but cooled over the generations.

Jammes had watched Vivienne leave in disgust, then turned back to Meg. "Go on, Meg. You tell the story, you always tell it best." It turned out to be a long story about a Swedish singer named Christine Daae, formerly a chorus girl, who had sung the soubrette roles in a few productions until her meteoric rise to success, which had been shrouded in mystery. Hero had privately thought that Nadir Khan's retelling hadn't had have half as much dash and swooning as Meg's.

Later, when they had all gone up to have breakfast at the refectory, Germaine had tried to calm Hero's nerves by telling her that they really didn't have any proof that the Opera Ghost had returned. Hero hadn't bothered to correct Germaine that what she mistook for an expression of anxiety, had been one of contemplation. Unlike what seemed to be everyone in the company, Hero had very sound nerves and was not given to flights of superstition. She was also aware, however, that one didn't make friends by telling people that they were just being silly. The rats had a rather blurred concept of where fact ended and fantasy began.

Still, she couldn't quite dismiss the whole story. The rats had said that Monsieur Khan had been seen quite frequently around the opera at just about that time and that some thought he was somehow tied to the whole Daae affair.

She had mentally filed the matter for future contemplation, when she had a moment to spare. As it turned out, there would be no forgetting the Opera Ghost, even if her curiosity had remained unruffled – he often made an appearance in all kinds of seemingly unrelated conversations around the _Garnier_.


	4. Chapter 3

**Hey everyone, thanks for reading! **

**Chapter 3 **

It was getting progressively colder, if that were even possible, Hero decided as she made her way across the grand vestibule, pulling her thick woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was also getting late and she was eager to ensconce herself into the relative warmth of her room. A trio of dancers walked past her, dressed in their tulle dancing skirts, and she felt a pang of pity as she watched them. The poor things had to be numb with cold, she decided. The managers had opted to keep heating expenses on the opera down to a minimum and had advised everyone to invest in thick scarves.

Under pressure from Moncharmin and Richard, who were desperate for the opera season to begin and the money to begin flowing in, practices had resumed as soon as the _corps de ballet_ and the chorus were assembled. The opera house was teeming with activity more than ever before.

Madame Dubois was subjecting her dancers to an impressively rigorous training schedule, claiming that they had all lost what skill they had in their break from the opera. Hero had just approached Germaine and Vivienne, where they stood huddling under cloaks and waiting for Jammes to catch up to them, when a loud knock could be hear on the locked doors. The sound echoed in the marble entrance hall, and a few people had appeared to see what was going on. Jammes was among them, still in the process of wrapping herself in her blue shawl.

"Who do you think would arrive at this hour?" Germaine asked Vivienne, who just shrugged and continued to watch the door that led to the ticket foyer, which in turn led to the front doors. Hero was silently wondering the same thing. Her pocket watch showed it to be nearing eleven at night, and most people had gone home.

A stage hand hurried past them and into the ticket foyer with the keys, which had been missing as usual, and unlocked the doors, which were summarily flung open and there was a muted conversation, followed by a tall man stepping forward into the grand vestibule.

"La Sorelli has arrived," he announced, and stepped aside, making room for a slight woman to enter. She wore a heavy black travelling cloak over a full-skirted dress in black silk and a dainty navy blue hat.

"She has a lackey now, too?" Jammes whispered, her voice laced with disgust and a little jealousy.

"Why not? She can afford one," Vivienne answered. The other dancers nodded solemnly at this – it was the ambition of every dancer in the corps to one day rise to prima ballerina.

"Is that the missing prima ballerina?" Hero asked the others.

"It is. She's been away for _months_, and I heard Moncharmin say to Remy that she wasn't too pleased about returning," said Germaine.

"Why not?"

"Oh, it's a dreadfully sad story. Her lover was Philippe, the Comte de Chagny, the current Comte de Chagny, Raoul's, brother. You remember, Meg told you about him? Philippe was always so polite, you know, and very handsome with his tall build and fine features. And he always brought Sorelli the finest roses and the most expensive little boxes of chocolates, tied with sating ribbons. He was always so very particular in his attentions to her, you know, though he didn't seem at all the sort for violent passions. Well, they found the comte drowned in the cellars under the opera soon after the fire."

"They _said _'drowned', but _everyone_ knows it was the Ghost that killed him," Vivienne supplied.

"So, you see why it's so very sad," Meg added softly. "Everyone thought they would get married."

"_That_ would have been a social triumph of note," muttered Jammes in quiet admiration.

Hero looked gravely at the small woman who, having dismissed her footman, had begun to move purposefully towards the staircase and probably her dressing room. The foyer started to empty as people went back to their tasks, or made their way to one of the other exits to go home.

"Should we go say 'hello'?" Germaine asked, looking anxiously at the others.

"Now? Don't be absurd," said Jammes, "You saw how distraught she looked. I shall make it my business to steer clear of her for at least the next two days. You might have forgotten how sharply she slaps, but I have not."

"It's a good thing they've fixed her dressing room, else all Hell would surely descend upon us," Vivienne quipped. "That demon from _Faust_ has nothing Sorelli."

Hero and the ballerinas made their way back to their own rooms, talking softly amongst themselves.

OOO

Erik was bored. And irritated. It was a deadly combination. He had taken to letting his vicious temper out on the managers and the staff. Richard had likely never received such a vindictive note in all his years in the world of business. Even Nadir, who had come over to visit him just the previous day had found himself subjected to an impressively loud rant on the common courtesy of waiting until one was _invited_ before making a nuisance of oneself. Not that he had been particularly bothered. Nadir had known Erik for far too many years to be affected by every fit of pique Erik chose to express.

The cause of Erik's latest bout of irritation was leisurely sharpening her claws on one of the hangings on the wall. Ayesha was going through a phase where she happily annihilated anything in her way. Including the miniature pipe organ. And the piano. Even Erik himself was not exempt from this unexplained malice. Narrowing his eyes, he glided over to the cat, and scooped her up. She instantly attached her claws to the sleeve of his coat and his silk cravat, squirming in displeasure at being pulled away from the hanging. Erik hurriedly made for one of his more harmless passages, unwilling to have to disarm his own traps with an angry cat clutched in his arms. He carefully extended a gloved hand as far as possible, to press a hidden panel in the wall of the fifth basement, which opened into a narrow passage that rose steadily into darkness. Erik felt somewhat glad that he had excellent night vision as he pushed open another hidden doorway and came out into a wide hallway, not far from the ballet dormitories.

He deposited Ayesha on the floor, and she stalked off in a huff. Erik spitefully hoped that she would make her way into the managers' office. He knew that before long she would return to his basement dwelling, as she always did, but he hoped she would exhaust her destructiveness before she got there.

He looked around the deserted hallway, paused a moment in thought, and decided that he might as well find someone on whom to vent some of his own foul temper. He set off down the passage and felt a surge of unholy delight as he happened across the ideal target almost immediately.

One of the ballet rats had been out later than the rest of her friends, and was making her way back to her room alone. His eyes narrowed at the happy, tuneless way she was humming. He took her cheerful demeanour as a personal slight – on his opinion the rats had grown much too relaxed in the past few months. As the girl walked past the shadowed alcove where he stood, without noticing him, he intentionally creaked a floorboard behind her, making her jump and turn quickly around to glance behind her.

Rosalina froze in place. Barely daring to breathe, she scanned the dimly lit hallway behind her. She could see nothing except a few slivers of shadow here and there. As a member of the _corps de ballet_, she knew many chilling stories about malicious shadows. None of them scared her, just then, so much as a ghost story she knew to be true. She peered into the shadows, shivering, certain that any one of them could hold her death. For a brief moment, she was sure she heard an indecipherable whisper and the sound of a lasso cutting the air on its way to strangle the life out of her, or snap her neck.

Joseph Buquet, the late chief scene shifter, used to tell all sorts of stories about the Ghost. He had always been a well-respected, serious man and not at all the sort to make things up. Rosalina had listened in horrified fascination as Buquet described the lasso the Ghost sometimes used, how it could bring instant death. Once the lasso was around your neck, he would tell them, there was no escape. Buquet himself had been proof of these tales. _He_ had certainly found no escape from a swift, impersonal, death in the shadows. He had been found hanging in the third cellar, and though the matter had been ruled a 'suicide' by the inquest, everyone at the opera knew it was the Ghost that killed him.

As Rosalina spun frantically this way and that, trying to make out any sign of danger, Erik glided closer to her frightened form. He barely touched her shoulder with a deathly-cold hand, and threw his voice to her left, laughing coldly.

Rosalina did not waste any more time in the face of such an irrefutable sign of danger. She lifted her hand to the level of her eyes, as she had often been told she must do in just such a circumstance, and took off running towards her dormitory.

Erik watched her terrified flight from his alcove, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and bitterness. Under his mask, he wore a rather ghastly parody of a smile. Eager to watch the little seed of terror he had planted grow into a full-scale panic, Erik followed the girl and slipped into another passage, which would lead him to a convenient ventilation shaft in the rooms that were used as the ballet dormitories and the passageway outside. He usually avoided this passage. It irritated him to listen to the ridiculous chatter and silly histrionics that were the staple fare of the ballet girls' conversation but, occasionally, there was enjoyment to be had from their tendency to exaggerate.

The Phantom's yellow eyes glowed in the gloom as he listened to the chaos unfold.

OOO

Rosalina did not hesitate to wake up her fellow dancers, gasping and sputtering, and almost-fainting all the way through her story. She had soon woken up the entire dormitory as more people came to see what was causing the commotion. Hero came out into the passage just in time to see Rosalina burst into loud, theatrical tears mid-way through a very elaborate, if highly exaggerated, description of a chilling laugh she swore followed her all the way to the dormitories.

Hero was thoroughly exasperated at being woken in the middle of the night when she had to be up early the following morning to help Mme Collot do a second fitting for the chorus. Her head felt foggy as she made her way into the crowded hallway, where ballet girls were milling. Every now and then someone squealed and threatened to faint, which only served to irritate Hero further. Having caught the tail-end of Rosalina's story, she unceremoniously pushed her way to the centre of the commotion and asked what all the excitement was about.

"It's the Ghost," a girl next to her hissed, with almost impossibly wide eyes. Her mussed brown hair, coupled with her wide-eyed expression made her look almost _comically_ distressed.

"Ghost?" asked Hero, attempting to wake up her brain. She knew she was not fully awake yet, because the girl's reply had almost made sense.

"Of course! The Opera Ghost! We've told you all about him," Germaine replied, as she looked around at the bare walls surrounding them, as though expecting to see the Opera Ghost standing amidst the ballerinas. _That_ would certainly have been amusing, Hero thought idly, before returning her attention to the others.

"Sssh! Don't say his name, Germaine, or you will bring him upon us!" Vivienne's attempt at cautioning her fellow dancer came out more as an alarmed squeal.

Blinking, Hero moved her hair behind her ears as she tried to process what she had just heard. Somehow, she didn't think 'Opera Ghost' could be considered anybody's name.

"Rosalina was walking just over there," Suzanne pointed into the shadows further down the passage, "when she heard the floor creak behind her. She felt chill fingers _grab_ her shoulder – "

"They were like _icicles_! I felt the chill all the way to my _bones_!" interjected the victim, looking extremely flushed.

" – and then she ran over here in a desperate attempt to escape with her life, while demonic laughter followed her!" finished Suzanne, but Rosalina did not seem satisfied, as she felt the need to elaborate yet again.

"Oh, it was _ghastly_! I felt little fiendish fingers pull at my hair and clothes as I ran, as if trying to drag me down to _Hell_ with them!"

Hero watched as Josephine tried to comfort Rosalina by putting a comforting arm around her shoulders but the ballerina would not be deterred in continuing her story.

"It was horrible! I thought, surely, my end had come. I swear I heard the lasso! And think I might have even _seen him_! H…He was just as Joseph Buquet used to describe him! He was wearing dress-clothes and an opera cloak!" She attempted to wipe at her tear-stained cheeks, but the effort was futile.

Hero thought that the last thing Rosalina needed was so much attention and fuss but she diplomatically kept this opinion to herself.

"Did you see the death's head?" Jammes asked with a tremble in her voice, her fear almost giving way to excitement.

"Jammes!" Germaine glared at her friend and threw another cautionary glance at their surroundings.

"I'm only asking because – "

There might have been an argument to add to the drama already happening around them, had footsteps not sounded around the corner.

"It's him! He's come to finish what he started!" gasped someone in the crowd. Hero heard a soft thump as the speaker carefully fainted on the thin carpet.

"Don't be a ridiculous! You know his footsteps make no sound," Suzanne retorted.

Suzanne was right. They watched Madame Dubois round the corner, dressed in a warm robe over her nightdress and carrying a candlestick. Her blonde hair hung down her shoulders in two plaits, and framed her displeased expression. She had la Sorelli and two ballet girls in tow.

Mme Dubois, as the ballet mistress, had agreed to reside on premises as a great favour to the management because none of the junior instructors, who would usually reside near the dormitory of the ballet school with the younger girls, were presently at the opera. She often made a point of reminding the managers of this, especially when they tried to make well-meant suggestions concerning her choreography. In the midst of the chaos, two of the girls had dashed off to fetch the ballet mistress. Sorelli had heard them hurry past her dressing room, where she had elected to stay the night, and had come out to investigate, armed with the little dagger she always kept about her person.

"What is this I hear about ghosts and fiends? Why are you all milling about? Have you no rehearsals tomorrow?" demanded the ballet mistress. Germaine quickly summarised Rosalina's story for the new arrivals. Hero supposed Germaine had decided Mme Dubois would not have appreciated the unabridged version. Looking at the woman's displeased countenance, she was inclined to agree.

La Sorelli had moved to stand off to the right, out of the way next to Meg Giry. Neither of them said a word. Watching Sorelli, Hero remembered what she had been told about the prima ballerina's suitor. She could only imagine how terrible the poor woman must have felt just then. All the fuss seemed in very poor taste considering what the woman had been through. Moving closer, Hero saw that Sorelli was trembling and nervously playing with a wooden ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, and Meg had a look of stumped disbelief on her face. Neither of them seemed to be paying much attention to Germaine.

Sorelli started out of her stupor just as Hero spoke softly next to her. "I'm sure it wasn't really the Ghost," she said to the distraught prima ballerina. "Rosalina was tired, and it's so quiet and poorly lit down here. It takes little for the imagination to start playing tricks. Besides, she can be something of a peagoose sometimes." Hero wondered why anyone would put on a dress-coat and wait around empty hallways in the hope of finding someone to scare. It was such a silly notion that she would have had trouble taking it seriously, had Sorelli's expression not been testament to the gravity of the prank.

"Excuse me?" Sorelli stared at her, surprised. "Oh! No…of course not. I didn't think that it was. I was just…" She shook her head, letting her words trail off. Meg put her hand on Sorelli's arm in an effort to comfort her.

Hero found that she admired how close the women of the _corps de _ballet really were. Despite the petty squabbles and the competition over parts in the productions, despite Sorelli's reputed disdain for the other dancers, they still drew together when one of them was distraught.

Sorelli shook her head again, as though to clear it, and looked back at Hero.

"I suppose you've heard, then? You weren't here when it happened. I don't remember you. But I suppose everyone has heard."

"I can't speak for everyone but, yes, I'm afraid that I have," Hero answered.

"We _do_ live in the ballet dormitories," Meg pointed out gently, earning a slight smile from Sorelli.

"I'm sorry you had to see this," Hero said with sympathy. "They mean no harm by it." Just at that moment, someone called for smelling salts for Roselina.

Sorelli sighed and shook her head. "It is my own fault. I didn't have to come when I heard what this was about, and yet I still did. I had to be certain. I had to know for Philippe. That monster can't still be here, whatever he may be, and yet I have the most chilling certainty that he is. Please, excuse me. I think I must return to my dressing room." With a weak smile, the prima ballerina made to walk back the way she had come.

"I shall walk with you," Meg said unexpectedly, moving in step with Sorelli.

_Whatever he may be…_ Hero mulled over the woman's words. It was certainly a very interesting point.

By the time everyone had gone back to their beds, a story had spread that the Opera Ghost had summoned the every fiend from Hell to chase after the ballerina, cackling and flicking their flaming whips at her heels. Hero suspected that Rosalina indulged in the same Gothic novels as her sister, Lavenna.

As the girls finally returned to their rooms, Hero wondered about the strange incident. She did not believe Rosalina's silly tale for a moment, yet she was certain that the ballerina had seen or heard _something._ The detachment in Sorelli's expression had been the thing to convince her. She found that she could no longer dismiss the whole Opera Ghost business as so much fanciful nonsense.

She hadn't given either the Persian's story or Meg's much thought beyond a few idle thoughts when the Ghost happened to turn up in conversation. She had been much too busy with her own concerns and the duties she was expected to perform as Mme Collot's assistant, but suddenly she felt a strong urge to investigate. She wanted to know how much of what she'd been told was true, if any. She couldn't imagine why anyone would waste their time frightening ballet girls. She supposed if any of it was true, there had to be a 'someone' behind all the chaos, just as Sorelli's words had suggested, because she refused to credit ghost stories or demons.

As she drifted off to sleep, it occurred to her to wonder that Meg had not seemed particularly frightened of walking back to her room alone after she had accompanied Sorelli to her dressing room.

OOO

**Responses:**

The Adventures of: Yes, I'd forgotten the story too, to be honest, and when I looked at it again it was kind-of embarrassing, so I decided what it needed was a re-write.

LadyCavalier: I'm very pleased that you're enjoying the story so much! :) I hope this chapter will tide you over until the next bit? I'm not a big fan of angst either, so I'm certainly doing my best to keep it to a minimum.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Firmin Richard was considered to be a very accomplished composer; particularly admired for the charming impromptus he was often called upon to produce at salon parties. He was widely known for his great and almost entirely undiscriminating love of music of every sort. He had many musician friends, and his own published compositions had seen much success. Richard's opinions in regard to music, though sometimes quite harsh, were respected in Parisian musical circles. Yet, of late, he had found that even his love of music was hard pressed to be any consolation in the face of every disaster that seemed to occur at the _Garnier_.

As his eyes fell on the seemingly innocent object, which lay on his mahogany desk, he wondered how much more his nerves could possibly take. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he slowly removed his coat and top-hat, set them on the coat-hanger by the door, and warily approached the desk. He dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief, staring at the envelope for a moment, before venturing to pick it up. The rich, cream-coloured envelope had clearly come from an expensive stationery set. He scanned it for any clue of the sender, but concluded that it must have been hand-delivered for it bore no trace of a stamp or any writing. He could feel dread rising as he slit it open with his silver letter opener, a Christmas gift from Moncharmin two years prior.

Unfolding the letter and scanning the contents anxiously, the active-manager sagged with relief. It was merely a correspondence from the chief opera patron, the Comte de Chagny. The ancient de Chagny coat of arms sat proudly at the top of the letter. Before he could read the letter properly, however, a ballerina burst into his office, nearly without knocking, and quickly informed him that he was needed in the auditorium. _Urgently_. She looked wide-eyed and jumpy.

Richard regarded the girl with dislike for a moment, before heaving a tired sigh and motioning for her to lead the way. The feeling of dread had come back as he wondered what catastrophe awaited him this time. It had not taken him long to learn that in the world of opera nearly everything was regarded as a catastrophe, but his particular opera house seemed much more susceptible than most. He wished Moncharmin had not taken the morning off so that he could have been there to share the burden of the latest calamity.

He entered the carefully restored auditorium through one of the doors that led to the stalls and made his way past the many rows of seats, which had recently been re-upholstered to replace those damaged or destroyed in the fire. He could see that a small crowd was gathered on the stage, consisting of stage hands, dancers, singers, chorus members and a few musicians. Holding court in the midst of the congregation was La Carlotta, the prima donna who had been persuaded to come back to the _Académie Nationale de Musique_ for the forthcoming season only when the Comte de Chagny had offered to almost double her fee. The opera house was regarded with some unease by singers, after rumours had spread, and it would otherwise have been impossible to replace the prima donna on such short notice. After all, the Comte had married Carlotta's understudy and he felt a little guilty at leaving them without a leading lady.

On closer inspection, the Spanish diva's complexion was a rather unflattering shade of grey. Her imperious demeanour was replaced by a somewhat nauseous expression as she stared at a familiar-looking card in her hand. Wondering if it was too late to turn around, leave at speed and hail a hansom to take him home, Richard cautiously ascended the stage from the left, and a glance downstage revealed what appeared to be a burst sand bag. No one had attended to sweeping away the sand.

A loud and rather aggrieved conversation coming from the orchestra pit caught his attention. He looked over the edge of the stage to see his secretary, Remy, talking animatedly with Monsieur Reyer, the aging conductor. Richard had always liked Reyer, who had struck him as a very sensible gentleman and an excellent conductor. He couldn't help but notice that Reyer was looking tired and frail as he argued with Remy, who appeared to be attempting to pacify him. Seeing the expression on Remy's face, Richard had a very good idea as to the identity of culprit in the latest 'accident'.

"…you swore it was over!" the conductor could be heard saying, "Now we are all of us subject to his whim again! I am too old for this! Don't pretend, monsieur, that you don't know who's responsible! We are all cursed. Again!"

A few musicians remaining in the pit nodded their agreement, and Richard turned his attention to the prima donna.

"What has happened here, signora?" Richard asked, "You look very pale."

Carlotta's dark eyes fixed on him angrily, and her voice held a note of quiet fury, which made her accent more pronounced. "You wish to know what happened here? Well, I shall tell you! He was here! Again! That Ghost of yours has returned and he is up to his old tricks! He dropped the sandbag and he left _this_." She shoved the card at him, railing at him in Spanish.

Richard took the card out of her hand, recognising the childish red handwriting and the stationery. He read it, his frown deepening,

Dear Signora,

I find that I must welcome you back to my opera house. I trust that I find you in good health? I must say that it was most unexpected to learn that you are to return to this stage, but I daresay that particular deficiency in taste belongs to the messieurs managers much more than it does you.

I thought that I should also offer some warnings, in the spirit of good will. You shall take care not to overstep your bounds, signora, lest tragedy should follow. You should know that I have recently grown rather short of temper, and it would be a pity for you to find yourself singing your swan song quite so soon. You might have gathered that I have a pronounced dislike for scandal.

Perhaps you should also be aware that I never miss unintentionally.

Kind Regards,

O.G.

"La Carlotta had just finished a run through _Caro nome_, when the sandbag fell. It barely missed her!" cried Mlle Julienne Erwin, the mezzo-soprano singing Maddalena.

"Then it is true?" asked a ballerina whose name quite escaped Richard, but whom he had seen in the company of little Jammes. "The Ghost has returned?"

Neither Richard nor Remy, who had arrived onto the stage with Reyer in tow, replied. The manager tried to ignore his audience, who watched him with baited breath.

"I told you!" the ballerina exclaimed to the other dancers milling on stage, "I_ told_ you he has come back!"

"Signora, monsieur," began Remy, looking at the soprano and the conductor. "Please, keep in mind that no real harm has been done! You have contracts to which you must hold."

"Contracts! Are our lives worth only a scrap of paper?" demanded Carlotta. "Very well! I shall not leave the production. _Not yet_. But keep in mind, Monsieur Richard, that I shall not be intimidated and threatened again. Keep your Ghost under control, or you shall hear from my solicitors! And now, I am going home. I have had enough of your accidents and your sandbags for one day." With that, the diva swept majestically off stage. Silence hung in her wake.

"What is to be done now?" Reyer finally asked, with a sigh of resignation. "I cannot work like this."

Richard exchanged unhappy glances with his secretary. "Now, we must devise a course of action."

OOO

But there was little to be done against a threat they could not even see, as the managers knew quite well. The Ghost seemed always at least a step ahead of them, and as word of his return spread around the opera, no one wanted to earn his wrath. The staff were more convinced than ever of his unholy power, and Moncharmin found himself writing a very grudging cheque to the Opera Ghost, while Richard watched him glumly. They could think of no new way to stop or catch the Phantom, for they had tired it all before to no avail.

The days wore on, and as the rehearsals continued, so did the notes. To his credit, the Ghost left La Carlotta alone for the most part, though occasionally she found snide little notes waiting in her dressing room. The Ghost seemed to hold her vibrato in particular dislike and never hesitated to express his feelings on the matter in writing. Richard wondered if the Ghost realised that they had no time to replace the soprano. Her new understudy, hired at the last minute and the niece of someone or other at the opera, was green and entirely inadequate.

Instead, the Phantom seemed to find great enjoyment in tormenting the prima ballerina. He took shameless advantage of her reserved, melancholy mien. She was frequently subject to pranks. The rest of the _corps the ballet_ also provided a fair bit of sport – they could always be relied upon to react theatrically.

As the Opera Ghost indulged in his little cruelties, Hero Winterwood grew steadily more irritated. Her sleep was often disturbed by some commotion and she found herself spending unprecedented amounts of time consoling distressed ballerinas, listening to their tales of woe at the latest prank. She wondered if one person could possibly be responsible for every little thing that got put down to his name.

Few of the notes she had seen had been direct threats. Some had been snide or critical, and she was surprised to learn that some had held praise. A few of the notes had simply been cryptic. These turned out to be the worst as the inability to make sense of them caused even more furore, because the recipient was instantly convinced that the note had to be a most dreadful threat.

Everyone at the opera was working harder than ever, in an effort to have the place ready to open at the start of the winter season in a month's time. The rehearsals for _Rigoletto_ were well underway. Hero learned that the singers were expected to know their parts before commencement of rehearsals, so that rehearsals themselves consisted of ensemble run-throughs and tailoring the roles to the wishes of the conductor, musical director and acting-manager.

Curious at Meg's markedly unfazed reaction to the return of the Ghost, Hero made a particular effort to be friendly to the ballet rat. She was disappointed to find that, despite being amiable and perfectly forthcoming on other issues pertaining to the opera, Meg betrayed nothing which might have explained her curious unconcern. Hero did learn from Suzanne, however, that Mme Giry had been the caretaker of the Ghost's opera box before his disappearance, and was expected to resume her duties once again.

OOO

"I heard from one of the scene shifters that he heard Sorelli tell her maid that she was thinking of leaving the _Garnier_," said Germaine, taking a sip of her spicy tea.

It had been an unexpectedly sunny day, and no snow had fallen since the previous night, so some of the rats had decided to bundle up and brave the outside world. They had decided to venture out to the fashionable café across the _Place de l'Opera_. It was near enough to the theatre that they would have no trouble getting back for their evening rehearsal.

Even away from the opera, the ballet rats indulged in speculation about the Phantom. Hero turned her head slightly where she sat, to catch a glimpse of the opera house.

"Leave? But why would she leave? She has such a fine position. Mind you, I don't suppose Sorelli would have any trouble securing the position of prima ballerina elsewhere," said Suzanne.

"She says she cannot stay because of the Ghost."

"Yes," confirmed Germaine, "she says that she is sure to go insane if the letters and the pranks should go on much longer. I don't suppose she's at all recovered from the strain of the comte's death."

Vivienne nodded. "The Ghost even went so far as to send her two dead roses. An even number for death, you know. She found them this morning in her dressing room. She took it as mockery of her grief. Her maid said that she even threw the vase at the wall. And no wonder."

Hero shook her head regretfully. "I know she was supposed to have been quite difficult at times, but you all seem to agree that she has been very reserved since her return. And I don't imagine she could have done much to offend the Ghost in the past few weeks. Why go on tormenting her? It's in very bad form."

"It might be because he didn't like the comte or his brother. Perhaps he resents the fact that she mourns him so. Or perhaps he has just singled her out as the subject of his malevolence," ventured Jammes.

"Do you suppose she would really leave?" asked Hero, who found Sorelli to be pleasant conversation when the prima ballerina had been inclined to talk. The woman possessed a rather biting sense of humour.

"I imagine that depends entirely on the Ghost," said Meg. "No one else can do much about it. I don't see how anyone could force him to desist upsetting Sorelli. He can only be seen when he wishes to show himself, after all."

"Well, the managers tried to send a few _gendarmes_ to have a look about the building, and I heard that they saw a spectre appear right next to them, its glowing eyes like coals, only to disappear just as suddenly," said Jammes, crumbling a bit of the lemon biscuit that had come with her hot chocolate.

"Did he?" asked Hero interestedly, "I wonder how he did that."

Suzanne laughed at her. "Really, my dear Hero! He is a ghost. A fiend from Hell, by all accounts. You cannot possibly expect a reasonable explanation."

But a reasonable explanation was just what Hero expected. "I'm not so sure that he is. I've never quite believed in ghosts. And if he isn't a ghost, then there must be some trick to it." Hero shook her head thoughtfully, "besides, you told me yourselves that Christine Daae said that he was a man."

Jammes patted Hero's arm, looking both amused and pitying. "She also said he was an angel. And the ghost of her dead father. At some point, I recall her insisting he was the master of her mind and heart. I don't expect she knew herself. He might have put some spell over her. Don't forget that he was vanquished by Christine's husband, and now he has returned from the dead."

"If he had ever been dead at all. Or vanquished for that matter," Hero pointed out dryly, curiously noting the sharp look Meg shot her at her words.

"It's no good arguing about it," said Germaine reasonably. "What does it matter what he is, if there is no way to stop him? Come, let's not discuss this any longer. It chills me to think of it, even out of the _Opera_. What do you think of our new dance for the duke's feast in Act I? It was very difficult to learn."

"Well, you all make it look a trifle, which I suppose is testament to your skill," complimented Hero, though her mind was not quite on the conversation that ensued. She could feel the beginnings of an idea starting to come together. It promised to be quite risky, but that had never been much of a deterrent.

OOO

That night, despite her earlier enthusiasm, Hero found the task more daunting than she had expected. Tired from the day's work, she struggled not to fall asleep herself as she waited for the other girls to drift off. Her eider-down duvet and blanket were temptingly warm. As soon as she was sure that they were all asleep, Hero rose from her bed. She dressed quickly and quietly, pulling a dark dress over her chemise and forgoing her dreaded corset. Having neither patience nor time for hair pins, she tied her hair back from her face with a ribbon. She pulled on the flat, well-worn boots she always wore when she expected a long walk or tricky footing. They had the advantage of sturdy grip and the soft soles muffled the sound of her footsteps.

Pulling a small bag out of the valise next to her bed, she put it on over her shoulder and across her chest. Having wrapped herself in her warmest shawl and a cloak, she slipped silently out of the room, careful to step lightly in case the floorboards should creak and wake one of the rats. She hoped she wouldn't run into anyone on her little expedition.

Hero had always been somewhat impulsive, often recklessly heeding her own spur-of-the-moment ideas. On occasion this meant she ended up in the kind of situations she would probably have been better-off avoiding. That night, she had been swayed by a combination of curiosity, boredom, and a genuine desire not to have to spend half of her nights trying to help one of the rats puzzle out a cryptic note. She also wanted to test her theory regarding the mysterious Ghost.

She had made a point of sneaking into Box Five on several occasions, in the hopes of finding some clue as to the identity of the Phantom, but her search hadn't yielded anything useful. Luckily, where she lacked any concrete fact or evidence, opera lore was there to fill in the gaps. She had heard several people discourse at length on the secret tunnels under the opera, and how far they went. She was quite surprised that no one seemed to connect the tunnels with the Ghost, who was in the habit of appearing out of solid walls and disappearing through the floors. A supernatural explanation made for a much better story, she supposed.

Hero was determined to solve the mystery and learn the truth about the so-called Ghost. She was also quite interested in the tunnels. In her experience, it paid to have some knowledge of hidden passages and escape routes.

Still, her task might have been easier if she had any idea where she might find the Ghost or his tunnels. She knew there was a staircase down to the basement under the stage, but that seemed too obvious a place. Meg had said something about a mirror in Christine Daae's old dressing room, but when she'd tried to find a catch or lever to shift it, she's come up empty-handed. On closer inspection, the mirror seemed to be leaning against solid wall, and she wondered if the Ghost had somehow blocked that way.

As she debated her route, Hero lit a stubby candle, and the pale orange light flickered around the empty corridor. It was not much better than the reddish gas lighting to be found in other parts of the _Opera_, which cast more shadows than light. She decided that the most logical place to look for hidden underground passages was the network of cellars under the theatre, and so she made her careful, quiet way down to the bowels of the opera.

The door to the first cellar was locked with a big, rusted lock. Rusted locks were difficult to open without a key, and Hero examined it for a moment. She carefully set her candle on the concrete floor, and pulled a slim set of lock picks from her little bag.

After a moment of consideration, she selected a long, thin rake pick, which had a jagged tip. Then she pulled out an L-shaped tension wrench, securing it into the lock with her left hand.

Using the pick and wrench in unison with practiced ease, Hero carefully listened to the lock. Thirty minutes later, all she could hear were the unpleasant scratching sounds coming from the lock mechanism. Ten minutes after that, and after the fruitless application of oil from a thin vial, she was ready to accept that the lock was in too poor a state for her to be able to open as is. Frowning, she gave the pick a final jiggle in the lock, wondering if she would be able to locate one of the other entrances to the cellars in the vast gloomy opera house. The oil, however, must have finally worked its way into the rust, because she heard a pleasant clicking sound as the lock released.

With a sigh of relief Hero removed the tools from the lock, wiping the oil on the underside of her black skirt. She put the tools back into her bag and stood up.

Hero took the lock off the door, and set it on an up-turned wooden crate placed against one wall. Bushing the dust and rusty streaks off her hands with a clean handkerchief, she returned to the heavy door. Regarding it for a moment, she listened for any stray sounds. The Rat Catcher was often to be found wandering the opera house at night, and Hero did not wish for an audience. She had never spoken to the Rat Catcher herself and had only glimpsed him once in a shadowed passageway. He was an odd character who kept to himself and had a roomful of cages and strange devices near the cellars.

She could hear no sign of life in the oppressive silence. Turning the handle with bated breath, and listening to the door creak sharp protest, Hero carefully walked through it. Cold, damp air hit her on the other side of the door.

The rest of the cellars were guarded by simpler locks, and she had no trouble picking them. The odd collection of old backdrops and scenery, crates and props looked eerie in the flickering light of the candle. The door to the fifth cellar was not locked at all. Hero supposed that people hardly ever made it that far, since even the fourth cellar had been largely unused.

The further she walked, the more convinced Hero became that the fifth cellar resembled a stone maze much more than it did a storage room. She wondered if it was wise going in without a map of the cellars or a guide, but decided to trust to her innate and surprisingly reliable sense of direction. A few times she was sure she heard a scuffling sound in the dark. Though she was quite certain that it was nothing but a rat or two and the acoustics of bare stone, she still pulled a short, plain dagger out of her bag, holding it in her right hand, and the candle in her left. She was also careful to watch her step in the tricky, uneven passages. The ballet girls had mentioned something about traps, and though she was not sure she believed them, it paid to be careful.

The necessary caution considerably slowed Hero's progress. It was this that saved her from tripping a thin length of tripwire stretched across the floor at ankle height. However, her quick movement out of the way caused her to bump a slight protrusion in the stone wall with her shoulder, which in turn set off something that whooshed overhead. Ducking just in time, she avoided whatever it had been. Her candle had flickered at her movement, and dripped hot wax on her hand, causing Hero to hiss in pain at the burn, and miss taking a look at the projectile. Still, whatever it was, it had sounded unpleasantly sharp.

Rising to her feet, careful to touch nothing, Hero shook her left hand, to relieve the sting. She moved her shoulder experimentally, feeling sure that it would feel stiff in the morning.

At least, Hero decided, there were real traps. She was beginning to feel somewhat like Alan Quartermain and that meant that her little adventure promised to be an interesting one. Maybe even interesting enough to make up for her sleep-deprived bad humour come morning.

The cobwebs, on the other hand, rather lessened her enjoyment. Hero had a robust aversion to spiders, which could sometimes be a problem when she had to sneak around somewhere dark and favoured by arachnids. Steeling herself for the inevitable, Hero still cringed when more sticky web stuck to her face and hair. She was quick to brush it off her face with the back of her hand, hoping there wouldn't be any spiders still attached. The spider webs were a good sign really, telling her that no one had been down that passage in quite some time.

As she moved through the darkness, every move Hero made was slow and deliberate, careful to avoid setting off any more traps, and prepared to avoid any which she did. Whoever had set the traps was abnormally fond of tripwire. She was just beginning to think herself well on her way when she heard a soft, brushing sound behind her. She froze in place and listened, but silence hung in the empty tunnels like a thick curtain and she heard nothing more. Still, she felt the unpleasant prickling of being watched from somewhere in the darkness behind her and the silence failed to convince her.

Muscles tense, and her grip secure on her dagger, Hero turned around, slowly and carefully, her candle flickering.

OOO

The Opera Ghost had been making a very futile attempt to rest. For many years now, rest did not come easily to him – his mind would race on and on and he would be unable to find any peace from himself. He had been about to get up and return to his piano when he heard it. An alarm. One of many he had scattered around the perimeter of his abode, which could only mean that an intruder had somehow got through all of his traps and was coming devilishly close to his inner sanctum.

Swiftly, Erik leapt out of the coffin in which he slept out of sheer morbidity, and strode across the house on the lake, picking up a cloak and his lasso as he went. His first thought had been Ayesha, but the cat did not wander his maze. Neither could it have been the Persian, who always used the Rue Scribe entrance and tutted at Erik's traps.

The lasso was gripped tightly in one of his deceptively thin hands, as he strode swiftly through his domain, expertly avoiding his own traps, selecting short-cuts which were second nature to him in his maze. His black cloak billowed behind him as he walked and his feet made no sound on the stone floor.

For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to contemplate the possibility, however fanciful, that is might be _she_, come back to him after all. He cut that line of thought to the quick, however. No, such a possibility could never be, except in his own imagination, and he could not now afford to dwell on it. No. It was probably a vagabond, one of the many paupers starving on the streets of Paris, who had sought shelter and had wandered too far into the catacombs.

Wandered to their doom, as it happened, for the Opera Ghost would stand no more trespassers on his privacy. His eyes glowed faintly yellow in the dark as he walked.


	6. Chapter 5

**Thank-you to everyone reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**Chapter 5: **

Hero was met by more darkness, which was barely pushed back by the weak light of her candle.

_Regnava nel silenzio alta la notte e bruna, colpia la fonte un pallido raggio di tetra luna…ed ecco su quell margine, l'ombra monstrarsi a me!*_ She could have sworn she heard a vice whisper maliciously in her ear – but that wasn't right: there was no one next to her.

Two twin points of light glowed out of the darkness. Eyes, she suddenly thought, though it was impossible for human eyes to glow in darkness like a feline's. Hero made to move into a defensive position, but she was not fast enough and suddenly a thin length of rope was around her neck, like a lasso, tightening progressively. A tall thin shape solidified out of the darkness, holding the other end of the rope and Hero's knife hand flew out, knowing that she had very little time before the lasso asphyxiated her.

Her heart beating wildly, she felt adrenaline pulsing through her as she fought for her life. Swiftly avoiding the dagger, the man, who more an ominous black mask, deflected her hand, knocking it against the passage wall, and making her drop the knife, which made a clinging sound on the stone floor. Pulling the rope even tighter, he moved behind her.

"If you do not wish your next breath to be your last, you shouldn't even think of trying that again."

Hero considered kicking him in the shin, or elbowing him in the gut, but he seemed to have stopped tightening the noose, so she paused also.

"I suppose you're the infamous Opera Ghost, then," she said, as best she could with the rope tight around her throat. "You'd have to be – your opening line was very operatic. And the aria – I suppose that was you as well. But unless I'm very much mistaken, there's no fountain in this tunnel." She didn't mention that his beautifully trained voice could only have come from the stage. He didn't sound like the kind of thug that could be encountered in basements and the Paris catacombs.

The man chuckled behind her, somewhat sardonically. "Opera Ghost, is it, mademoiselle? Is that whom you came to seek down here? You must be a very curious sort of young woman." He paused a moment, before continuing, "Of course, child, curiosity killed the cat, and it seems that yours has led you to the same fate.

"You might be amused to know that my mother is fond of saying more or less the same thing. Though she phrases that last bit as a prediction, rather than a description of current circumstances. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to turn around. And loosen the rope – I'm finding it quite hard to speak."

Startled by the lack of any panic, pleading or tears, Erik did not protest as the girl turned to face him, her hands going up to the lasso and moving it firmly away from her throat. After all, he would have no trouble killing her, if he so chose.

The golden eyes were watching her curiously and not a bit suspiciously out of the black silk mask. Hero peered at him for a second, before nodding to herself.

"Then you _are_ the Ghost. I thought you might be more corporeal than they give you credit for, upstairs."

"I should think that being correct in your assumption would be the least of your concerns right now, mademoiselle. After all, you face your inevitable death – I am your greatest fear."

"You are mistaken, monsieur. I am not in the least afraid of you. And to be honest, I do not think that you will kill me."

"Foolish child." His voice was suddenly all around her, but Hero had seen ventriloquists before, though perhaps never one as skilled, and she failed to be duly impressed. "You are faced with the Opera Ghost. None survive the encounter. I am the terror that stalks the night! The bringer of death! I could kill you before you have a chance to react."

"Perhaps, but you will do no such thing."

"And why not, mademoiselle? Your confidence is entirely without merit."

"You won't kill me for two reasons, the first being that, should you try, you will discover that I am _very_ difficult to kill. The second is that you are the one who set all these traps. Which means that, no doubt, you are wondering how a girl from the Opera managed to get this far with her life and all her limbs intact. Neither will you learn why I have come here. And I suspect that you are rather fond of knowing things." Her voice sounded irritatingly pragmatic in the gloom. She had yet to plead for her life.

The Phantom's eyes flashed at her, and Hero was amused to note that the rats had been correct about his glowing eyes. Hero also realised that he wore a full opera suit and cloak, while wandering abandoned tunnels under the opera house at odd hours of night. She supposed that perhaps the man believed in formal leisure strolls. She beamed up at him, suddenly.

"Did you say you were dangerous?" she murmured thoughtfully, though he thought vaguely that he was being mocked.

"Very dangerous," he confirmed, feeling faintly murderous at her lack of any appropriate reaction. He would have supposed her simply to be extraordinarily stupid, if not for the teasing light in her eyes.

"Infamous? Feared? _Mad?_"

"Indeed." The lasso tightened for emphasis, and she had not even seen his hands move.

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know? How Byronic of you. Well, I don't suppose you'll believe me, monsieur Ghost, but I'm a bit infamous myself. And perhaps quite a bit mad."

He stared at her for a moment, surprised. He was not used to being bantered at. Her smile was making him uneasy.

A dangerous idea was beginning to form in Hero's mind.

"Why are you here?" he snarled, becaus he did not enjoy feeling unsettled and he wondered if he should not simply snap her neck and be done with it. And yet Erik could never bring himself to hurt a helpless woman, though this one seemed far from helpless, he reminded himself.

"You might not take me at my word, monsieur, but I have come all this way, though your multitude of traps and, regrettably, cobwebs, to speak to you."

The Ghost snorted the absurdity of her announcement. "Nonsense! To what end? You are a poor liar, mademoiselle. I recognise you now. You are one of those ridiculous friends of Marguerite Giry. One of the ballet rats, no doubt." His voice had become silky and dangerous. "Tell me, my dear, was it a dare? A little game with your friends that went too far? Did they challenge you to catch a glimpse of the Opera Ghost? Perhaps you were too proud to refuse – but pride comes before a fall, mademoiselle. Marguerite may be under a shred of grudging immunity, but you are not."

"The fact you can suppose me a ballerina only confirms that do not, in fact, recognise me at all, and have doubtlessly never set eyes on me before. But that is neither here nor there. I assure you, that I did come all the way here to speak with you. And perhaps to meet the person who is so good at leading the whole of the Opera by the nose. I have come about your rather distasteful pranks at the expense of my friends. While I do not doubt that they are of much enjoyment to _you_, they are not so to my friends. And unfortunately that means that they spend the best part of each night discussing your latest prank and scaring themselves more than you ever could." Hero fixed him with a steady stare. "We share a room monsieur, and I do not appreciate drama so late at night and quite so frequently. As to your apparent grudge against Sorelli, while I do not pretend to know what bad blood is between you, I ask you to stop. You last prank was in very poor taste!"

Erik stared at the young woman in astonishment. He did not quite know how to react to her audacity. In a moment, Hero found herself face to face with the mask.

"You seek to reason with a madman, mademoiselle! In poor taste, was it? Well! You dare come into my domain uninvited, and proceed to make demands of me? You must wish to provoke me!"

His voice was rising, mad and echoing around the tunnel and he suddenly had her pinned to the wall, his grip on the lasso strong and determined. Hero chose that moment to step on his foot, duck down and scoop up her dagger. She was very quick. This time, Erik was not as quick at evading her and she nicked his arm. It was not a deep cut, though it left a rent in his frock coat and the thin line of blood would doubtlessly stain the fabric.

Erik froze, fury forgotten as he stared at his arm.

"That was a very foolish thing to do, mademoiselle." His voice sounded deadly.

Hero resumed a defensive stance. "I regret having to do that. You were behaving irrationally. Suppose you accidentally killed me? Having said that, this whole episode is absurd. No doubt we are both irrational from fatigue. It is late. Here, I have some bandages in my bag, if you like." Wiping the dagger on her skirt, she put it away in a sign of good faith.

The Phantom's sabre was at her throat before she could locate the bandages.

"You are in my world now, mademoiselle, and you were not invited. You have attacked me with that knife of yours. Now, I will claim my dues. You were quite correct, it seems. I will not kill you just yet. Instead, you will come with me as my prisoner. Consider it the price of your idiocy."

The girl appeared to consider this, as if he had just invited her to luncheon, before nodding at him. "Very well. I will come with you. I am, by nature, curious and there are still questions to be answered. But you may lower your sword. I go with you quite freely."

"Is that so?" The blade pricked her skin.

"Indeed. You know by now that I am not helpless, and I am not particularly lost. I could leave if I so chose, but I do not. Here, I shall offer my knife as a sign of good faith." Slowly, her pulled out the knife, and handed it to him, handle first. It was quickly snatched from her, and vanished into the folds of his cloak.

"I doubt that very much, mademoiselle," he said pleasantly. "Now, come along, before I change my mind and decide to kill you after all."

Hero took the lasso off from around her neck, and it quickly disappeared into the Phantom's sleeve.

They moved through a myriad tunnels and passages, it seemed, and they did not encounter any further obstacles on their way. However, Hero felt sure his route was meant to confuse her, which it did.

As he led the girl through his maze, Erik wondered what he had been thinking. Had Nadir been there, he knew, he would never have heard the end of it. Had he somehow managed to surpass his own madness? Why the Devil did he decide to take the girl with him? An unpleasant voice at the back of his head suggested he'd have been better off killing her when he had the chance.

He wondered if it had not been her banter, regretfully interspersed as it had been with bursts of audacious violence, that had thrown him so off-centre. Though Erik would never admit it, it would be good to stave off the solitude, if but a little.

Hero walked calmly. She was not afraid. He could have made a proper attempt to kill her while he had the chance, and he had not done so. No doubt he had hoped to project an image of evil and madness, but she was not convinced. She had seen no evil in his eyes, and nowhere near as much madness as he seemed to believe in. She also felt quite guilty about the whole unfortunate knife business, deserved though it might have been.

Walking beside her with a steely grip at her elbow, his movements made no sound. She decided to break the silence.

"I didn't introduce myself. You must think it very rude, but I am sure, under the circumstances, it can be excused. My name is Hero Winterwood. What shall I call you?"

"You seemed to have no qualms with referring to me as the Opera Ghost."

"I didn't know you then. And we are not in any sort of Gothic novel, so I won't continue to address you as such, if it's all the same to you."

"A name has little meaning down here."

"I disagree. A name has as much meaning as you give it. Geography is irrelevant. Come now, humour me, monsieur."

So few knew his name anymore that it hardly seemed worth the bother to withhold it.

"Erik," he answered Hero, with a weary sigh. "My name is Erik." He suddenly felt very old.

Hero nodded. "A pleasure, then, Erik."

Erik found that he couldn't be sure whether she was lying.

The rest of the journey was conducted in silence. Hero's silence was contemplative, and Erik's wary.

Following the Opera Ghost, Hero skirted around the edge of an underground lake along a perilously narrow ledge. There was a house built on the other side of the lake, she realised with some surprise, before focusing all her effort on not tripping over her skirts. It made a strange kind of sense – she'd had trouble picturing Erik living in a nice Parisian apartment with a flower box and fading wall-paper.

They were in some sort of cavern past the tricky passages of the maze, and Hero wondered how far under the opera house they had come. The surface of the lake was still and dark, disturbed only by a slight beam of light coming from an air shaft in the ceiling high above the water, which must have led out onto the street. Hero wondered which street it was.

The narrow ledge twisted out of sight up ahead, and seemed to disappear, leaving them with nowhere to go. Erik stopped in his tracks and his gloved hands glided over the stone wall, pressing in so that a door previously hidden among the rough stone opened into another passage, this one darker than the cavern and quite narrow.

The tunnel seemed to curve around the lake, because when they emerged at last, it was through another trapdoor on the other side of the water.

"Well, my dear Ghost, I must say that I am reconsidering the fact that I am not in a Gothic novel," Hero teased. "Mrs Radcliffe could not have written better herself. I feel quite the heroine."

They were at the house by the lake, and through another door, an ordinary wooden one, Hero found herself in a sitting room that was quite unremarkable if you discounted its location. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden light, and she blew out her own candle, putting it into her bag. There were beautiful Persian rugs covering the stone floor thrown one over another and they were a little worn. A small writing desk stood in the corner, with a candle on it burnt half-way and some stacked paper. A leather sofa and two blue upholstered armchairs stood around a fireplace that was stacked with logs, though it looked as if it had not been used for some time. Bookshelves covered one wall, and a shaded lamp rested on a little table between the sofa and one of the armchairs.

The room was illuminated by three candelabras placed around the small space, and the tapestries on the walls, also Persian and also quite worn, gave the room a comfortable appearance. The furniture was old-fashioned and perfectly ordinary. Three closed doors led out of the room.

Having taken a cursory look around, Hero turned to face the Opera Ghost. He was not what she had expected, though if asked she would have been unable to say what _that_ had been. He was a very tall man, towering over her though she was by no account short. He was also rake-thin, in a way that suggested illness, or a negligence in keeping regular mealtimes, or any meal times at all. His suit, though she recognised the expensive fabric and skilled tailoring, hung off his thin frame, and did not quite fit correctly, as though the tailor had attempted to make it on description and measurements, but without a proper fitting. His black mask hid his face and shadowed his unreadable yellow eyes. His hair was sparse and dark.

He was an enigma, she decided, and Hero had always been fond of riddles.

OOO

* "The night, deep and dark, reigned in silence, a dim ray of gloomy moonlight hit the fountain…and the spectre appeared to me on that edge" Erik is doing his best to be creepy by quoting bits of _Regnava ne silencio_ from _Lucia de Lammemoor_. This part of the aria foreshadows Lucia's doom.


	7. Chapter 6

**Thanks for reading! **

**Chapter 6 **

The Opera Ghost stared at the young woman as if, having finally arrived at the house by the lake, he wasn't sure what to do next. A part of him noticed that there was a bit of cobweb clinging to her dark skirt.

Hero watched him patiently, an unreadable expression on her face. He seemed to be having some sort of inner debate. She continued watched as he reaching a conclusion, and moved briskly past her.

The Opera Ghost picked up a candle from the nearest candelabra. "Follow me," he ordered, and Hero once again marvelled at his beautiful, compelling voice. It made her move to follow him before she gave the matter any thought, and this made her frown slightly at his back. He did not look behind him to see if she was following.

Erik led her through the door straight across from where they had been standing, which seemed to come out onto a pokey passage, also hung with tapestries, though the floor was bare, and made of stone. Hero supposed it was a cold passageway even in the summer. There were more closed doors coming off the narrow passage, and Erik selected the one at the very end. The room turned out to be a kitchen. It was dark, and even pokier than the tunnel outside, though Hero thought it could be made comfortable with a bit of effort. As it were, the room looked as if it saw very little use.

Erik placed the candle in a tarnished silver holder on a heavy wooden table, and motioned to one of the old-fashioned chairs.

"Sit," he ordered, in a tone that allowed for no argument, though Hero wondered why she should have argued at being offered a seat. She ought to have been feeling very tired, but the situation was much too interesting for that.

As she lowered herself into a high-back chair, which allowed for neither slouching nor leaning, she stared up at her host. He made no effort to produce any more candles, and the candle on the table cast flickering shadows all over the room and its only other occupant. Hero supposed he was doing his best to look intimidating, and waited for him to speak.

Erik's yellow eyes narrowed at her unconcerned expression. Hero guessed that a part of him was still expecting hysterics from her. The most he could expect, however, was a fair bit of grumpiness when her exhaustion caught up with her.

"Now, mademoiselle, you will tell me exactly how you found yourself to be wandering around _my_ basement in the middle of the night." His voice was dangerously soft as he stood towering over her.

"I have told you that already: I was looking for you. It made sense to look in the basement. Though what you really want to know is how I made my way past all those traps in one piece. Well, I will tell you, monsieur, that I have some expertise in the matter of traps, and we shall leave it at that. If you find it any comfort at all, I did not precisely know where I was going, and some of mechanisms were quite difficult. You certainly made it an entertaining walk." She steadily met his hard eyes.

"Then I'm afraid your entertainment was about to be cut short, my dear. Very abruptly. There is a drop a little further north down the passage you were headed. It is sudden and impossible to spot until it is too late. It would have been a long and unpleasant fall." She could not see his face, though his tone suggested that he was smirking at her from behind his mask.

Hero remained unperturbed, except for a slight curling of her lips. "Ah, but it is entirely thanks to you, then, that I did not get that far. It seems, monsieur Erik, that I owe you my thanks. You have saved my life."

"Are you so certain of that, mademoiselle? Erik has saved your life, you say, but perhaps he meant only to introduce you to a worse fate." His voice was sinister, and the candlelight flickered fiercely over his mask.

"I am very certain, I assure you. I daresay if you wanted me dead, efficiency would have been the best solution for you. You could have let me continue. And I don't believe that you haven't a dozen traps even more gruesome where you might have left me, if you wished. You could have killed me a few times since then also, but you have been a perfect gentleman. No, Erik, you helped me, and so I thank you. I owe you a debt."

He seemed momentarily taken aback as though she had said something utterly preposterous. "A debt? And what could I possibly want from you, ballet rat or opera wench that you are. Erik desires nothing from you."

He had an odd manner of speaking, Hero thought. Perhaps it was meant to unnerve her, but she chose to ignore it. "Nonsense. And I am indebted to you whether you want me to be or not. It is a question of honour. Especially since it is my fault that your arm is still bleeding. I do apologise for that, again."

He snorted. "Honour? What a quaint notion, child. Your apologies are neither necessary nor wanted."

"None the less. Now, I beg that you let me do something about that arm," she said, pulling strips of bandage and a little glass bottle of green ointment out of her bag. "You will have to take off your coat."

The Phantom leapt back, scandalised. "I will do no such thing! Do not concern yourself with my arm, mademoiselle. It is nothing I cannot take care of myself."

Deciding that arguing was no use, Hero shrugged. "Suit yourself then." But she left the bandages and the bottle on the table.

"Then what are you exactly, since you claim not to be a dancer, though you share a dormitory with them. A singer perhaps? In the chorus?" His voice darkened, which piqued Hero's curiosity.

"No. My singing is not the least bit operatic. My former music master once pronounced it to be the most skilfully apathetic voice he had ever heard. I never had the slightest inclination or aptitude for studying music in any practical sense, though I have a reasonable enjoyment of hearing it played well and have a good memory for musical trivia. The latter, perhaps, ought to be charged to my mother's account. My sister is very musical, you see, so I find myself reading programmes a lot at operas and concerts. If you must know, I am assistant to the Costume Mistress at the _Opera Garnier_. It sounds grander than it is."

"Costume Mistress? Then you help make the costumes."

"No. I am also not much good with a needle and thread. I could never bring myself to put in the effort to improve. I make a dreadful mess of it when I try. My duties are mostly of the fetch and carry variety, with the odd bit of simple mending. Buttons and the like."

"Strange that you should seek employment in the field then. But you live with the dancers."

"The opera is not yet fully repaired, as I am sure you are aware. It is the only bit of room they had, and Madame Collot would not hear of me walking home at night, a lone young woman and a stranger to the city."

He thought she might have been mocking him.

"I am sure you would be very vulnerable," came the dry reply.

Hero surprised him by laughing.

"Not that I won much comfort by it. The junior dancers get the dampest rooms in the entire opera. But, at least, I am happy to say that that environment has proved itself to be very suitable for making friends."

"And it is on behalf of those friends you claim to have come here," he said with obvious disdain.

"In part, though I have also come to defend my right to a good night's sleep."

"Touching, my dear. Though I cannot imagine how you thought to convince me. You see, difficult thought it might be for you to imagine, I do not care a whit about the _feelings_ of anyone at the opera. They deserve whatever vengeance I choose to carry out and much more besides," he said venomously.

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean you should keep carrying it out. Or perhaps you could opt for a bit of morning vengeance instead? After breakfast would suit me well enough. Though I must insist that you leave poor Sorelli out of it."

"Insist? What right have you to insist on anything?"

There was a hint of ice in her voice, though it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. "I can play at childish pranks as well as you can, Erik. Oh, but I am mistaken. Your particular pranks are ascribed to _demonic powers_. Forgive me. I quite forgot."

His angry eyes glared at her, and his ire began to rise again.

"You doubt my monstrosity, then? Or is it that you would mock me?"

"I confess myself guilty of both. Oh, you need not fly into such a huff! Do sit down, Erik. This is getting silly." She motioned at the only other chair at the table.

Erik had never experienced such a blasé reaction to his presence. He knew that even Nadir, who had known him for years ad who had seen him at his most vulnerable, still found him chilling at times. It would have been childish had he continued standing, after she had spoken in such a droll tone, and so Erik had no choice but to sit. His glare burned into her.

"Oh, don't be upset with me, monsieur, I beg. We've only just met, after all, and I am sure we will be fast friends before long. But you mustn't glare. I am sure you can be a terror when you wish to. You must admit, however, that your pranks thus far have been callous rather than evil, and I have no reason to suppose you a monster, no matter what stories I may have heard."

"You will. You are my _prisoner_ now. Tell me, now that you have made your request and I have denied you, was it worth the price you will pay for violating my privacy?"

"Oh dear. I am to be distraught at that, then? But I am not through arguing my point – you really do need to find a better way to pass the time."

"Such as, girl? Perhaps I should join the local gentlemen's club? I understand they have a _policy on masks_."

"It's probably just as well. Dreadfully dull places, or so I'm given to understand. Full of the most inane idiots imaginable. I have never been myself, of course. Wouldn't be quite the thing, you know. For a lady."

Erik said nothing.

"We will just have to think of something else, won't we, to put a stop to this insanity you seem to be indulging in," Hero continued, as if she were discussing the weather.

He was up in a flash, his thin hands around her throat, his eye blazing into hers.

"Have no doubt, mademoiselle, that Erik is every bit insane, and that if you push him, he will not hesitate to snap your little neck. _You will not meddle in his affairs_."

Hero wondered if her neck was going to be bruised. She fought down an answering burst of anger at the whole ridiculous situation, and poised herself to act if he should try and carry out his threat. Her face, however, remained impassive as she stared steadily back. Something in her stare seemed to snap him back to sanity, however, and he let her go, stepping away abruptly as he did so and returning to his chair.

"You are English," he observed, as if nothing had happened. "though your French is good."

Hero inclined her head. "I had a tutor for many years as a child."

This surprised Erik: having grown up with tutors in music and languages seemed to suggest that the girl came from an affluent family. The wealthy middle class perhaps, or even the gentry, for the working classes did not have time or funds for such leisure. The daughters of such families, however, did not work in opera houses or sleep in dark, damp dormitories.

"Tell me, why did you seek work at the _Opera_? And why as a seamstress's assistant?"

"I needed to find work."

"They pay you a pittance." Erik had a very sound understanding of the _Garnier'_s finances.

Hero smiled faintly again, and absently rubbed her throat, which Erik did his best to ignore. "They do, but money does not signify so very much."

"And you have no intention of saying anything further," he concluded when Hero allowed silence to resume.

"Quite right. After all, I have not asked why you are living in these caverns, either. You are a man of some education – that much is evident by your speech, your manner and your bookshelves. I noticed a book which appeared to have been written in Farsi. Therefore, I assume that you can at least read the language."

Erik laughed bitterly. "I did not live out my entire life in these God-forsaken caverns. I have travelled further than you could imagine, and I have seen things that would chill your blood, mademoiselle."

"Have you? How interesting. I wouldn't be so sure, however. I have seen the opera cast with their faces painted for the stage and yet I have had no recurring nightmares of the incident."

Erik chuckled darkly. "Yes, they are certainly determined to make the production as garish as they can."

"Not as garish as some of the productions at the _Comique_."

"Ah, but the manager there is even more tasteless than our Monsieur Richard."

"I understand you have written him to express this very sentiment. Though I think you are being unreasonably hard on poor Richard. He is only trying to draw in funds to repair the _Opera_. He means no harm."

"That is no excuse. And Moncharmin, who believes himself to understand music! When quite clearly, it is a thing he knows nothing of."

"You are a musician, then?"

"I am." The words were said with such gravity that Hero supposed Erik to have many particular, and not entirely generous, opinions regarding others in his field.

"I see. Well, Erik, since you have gone to all the _trouble_ of _kidnapping_ me, and since we are doing such a fine job of getting to know each other, I don't suppose you would be so good as to offer me tea?"

Erik was quite taken aback at her request. It was the thing to do, he knew, in social situations, but he doubted that this registered as a social situation. He was the abductor, after all, and the young woman was his abductee. He was also a murderer, a fact of which she was perfectly aware. He wondered how, being in possession of all that knowledge, she had the gall to ask him for _tea._

"Oh, don't worry yourself," Hero huffed, when he took too long to oblige her, "I'll just do it myself, shall I?"

Rising from her chair, she ignored him, and proceeded to fill the cast-iron kettle from the little cold-water tap next to it. Shooting a pointedly disapproving glance at a near-by cobweb and the generous layer of dust, Hero used a long match to light the gas under the stove. She opened cabinets until she found two cups and a teapot, which she rinsed, wincing at the cold water, before looking for the tea. Erik did not offer to help. Stealing another glance at him, Hero confirmed her suspicion that he was probably as unfamiliar with his own kitchen as she was.

Hero sniffed suspiciously at the tea when she found it, half-expecting it to smell of damp, but it smelt alright, and seemed to be quite a pleasant blend. She wondered how Erik did his shopping. Silence reigned as Hero waited for the kettle to boil and dug around in search of sugar. When it gave a piercing whistle indicating that the water had boiled, Hero put out the gas, and grabbed a bit of her skirt on lieu of a towel, pouring the water into the teapot. She set the pot and two cups before Erik.

"Now, I know it is not at all the thing, but we shall have to be barbaric and have our tea in the kitchen," she said, seemingly unconcerned at his lack of reply.

After a while, she poured out the tea, stirring sugar into her own cup. She smiled encouragingly at Erik, who was staring silently at the cup. He was not used to being served tea by strange women in his own kitchen. As she gratefully drank the hot brew, she noticed that Erik had not touched his. She supposed that perhaps he did not wish to remove his mask. She wondered if there was any truth in the stories about his face, though she hardly supposed that it to be anything like the ballerinas had described it.

The steam rising from the cups and the light of a single candle created an odd intimacy between two strangers. Erik studied the young woman. Her face was pleasant enough, though plain, and her dark hair was unremarkable. She was not a beauty by any account, and yet her eyes were animated and mischievous, adding an unexpected charm to her appearance. She was very definitely not the golden-haired angel he had so often pictured pottering around his kitchen.

Something twisted in him at this thought, and suddenly he could not bear to look at her.

Rising abruptly to his feet, Erik strode out of the little room, his cloak swishing behind him. Hero looked up in surprise, before returning to her tea. Now that the excitement had subsided, she felt very sleepy. She hoped that he had gone to tend to his wound.

As she sat alone in the dark room, Hero let her mind drift to the Opera Ghost. He was a very singular man, and she could tell he was very unhappy. He certainly had a dreadful reputation. And yet apart from a few moments of rage he had not been cruel or attempted to hurt her. If he had been telling the truth about the drop in the tunnel floor, then he had also saved her life. She suspected there was much more to his story than was told in the ballet dormitories, which certainly made him a figure of some interest.

And yet, it wasn't like her to wish to actively go out of her way to meddle in the life of a stranger. She kept returning to the fact that he had saved her, and that she owed him for that. He was also correct in accusing her of having intruded upon his domain, though she felt quite justified in doing so. Hero suspected that he somehow believed himself worse than he really was, and she found herself _wanting _to help him, even if just by offering her friendship.

Perhaps her exhaustion was to blame, but before long Hero had quite made up her mind about things.

As her sleepy mind drifted further, she wondered what time it was, and wished that she had thought of taking along her pocket watch. She was sure she had seen a clock on the mantle of the fireplace in Erik's sitting room. She thought of England, and what her family and friends had been doing in her absence. Her mother would be up in London, perhaps subjecting her sister to dress fittings and milliners. Her father would have remained at home, most likely reading in his study. Her friends could be just about anywhere. She was quite content at the _Opera _for the present, and would be for a while yet, perhaps, but eventually she knew she would grow tired of it, and would long for her old life and for the adventure it promised.

Finishing her tea, Hero placed it in the basin, before picking up the candle and making her way back to the sitting room. She could hear the sound of a piano being played _fortissimo _somewhere nearby, but she did not recognise the piece. The music sounded angry and was played with an astounding virtuosity.

In the music room, Erik was lost in his own racing thoughts, as he worked away on a nocturne, a piece of his own composition. He should not have let his thoughts stray back to Christine, but they had and it was too late. He had tried to keep her from his mind, but she was like a wound that had never quite healed. The painful throb in his injured arm matched his inner turmoil in a way he found oddly satisfying. The presence of another woman in his home, so decidedly _not_ Christine had forced him to make comparisons, however superfluous. The last shreds of sanity were quickly spiralling under control as the piano bent to his will. Again, he cursed himself for having brought the girl with him. What could have possessed him to do such an idiotic thing?

Hero had taken one look at the clock ticking carelessly away on Erik's mantelpiece, and felt a sense of sinking dread. It was four in the morning. She had very little time to get back up to the _Opera_ and steal a few hours of sleep before the others started waking. She contemplated her options. She could wait for Erik to finish with his piano before interrupting, but if she was any judge, he looked set to bang away at it for hours yet, and she did not have hours to spare.

She supposed he probably would be none too pleased to be interrupted, but decided that he would simply have to get over his ire.

"Erik!" she called, before setting out to look for him because she didn't think he would be able to hear her over the piano. He did, however, and the music came to an abrupt halt, though it seemed to ring through the little house for a few seconds yet, and Hero marvelled at the acoustics of the place.

She heard a door opening somewhere, and then another. The Opera Ghost was framed in the doorway to the right of the one that led to the kitchen. He had changed his shirt and, presumably, he had also taken the time to bind the cut on his arm. His body language seemed to suggest a great deal of irritation. His shoulders were rigidly tense.

"There you are. How is it that you heard me? I didn't think you would have, with the music."

"Mademoiselle, I _do not_ appreciate interruptions when I am occupied by my music. What is it?" His beautiful voice was terse.

"My apologies, I'm sure," she replied in a well-bred tone that seemed to irritate him further. "Only, I just noticed that it is already four in the morning, and I must be up at eight."

"And what is it that you would like me to do about that? I have no mastery over the passage of time, no matter what the fools above might say." His tone was tart, and Hero's answering smile was just as biting.

"Well, sorry as I am to learn that, since we have now established what you _cannot_ do, then perhaps we could move on to what you _can_? It is time that I was getting back to the dormitory."

"I have told you already, you cannot go back. Sleep on the sofa, if you wish." With a careless wave at the furniture in question, he half-turned to go back to his music room. Already, he could feel the melody slipping away from him, soon to be lost forever.

"As kind as your offer is, I don't think so." Her dark hair had got tangled and was half-falling in her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently before continuing. "I have a very few hours to get any rest at all, and I will already be no good to anyone tomorrow. As much as I have enjoyed this adventure, it is time that I went back. Trust me, monsieur, it is for the best. I get very unpleasant on little sleep. If you do not take me back, then I shall go myself, but I mean to go back before much more time has passed." Her black dress swirling around her, she made to head towards the hidden door that led out into the tunnels.

"You will do no such thing!" he barked, crossing the room and stopping just short of touching her. Hero stopped and half-turned, looking over her shoulder at him and raising her eyebrow.

"I assure you that I will. I daresay it might take a bit of time, but I have an astounding sense of direction, and I will eventually find my way. There can be no keeping me here, you know, not really. Now, be a dear and show me out. They will presume you took me, if I suddenly disappear. They presume you take powder puffs and spare wigs and matching socks. They are bound to blame you for _this_. It wouldn't do to have a mob down here. Especially with the _Opera_ not even rebuilt yet! Think of poor M. Richard – I don't think his frazzled nerves could take it."

Before Erik could voice his opinion on M. Richard and his nerves, Hero sighed tiredly.

"I still owe you for saving my life, Erik. I will return."

Erik knew he could not trust her to return. If she should speak even a word to anyone, if she should reveal one of his secrets, to which she had been witness in his domain, then the results could be disastrous. But she was correct – her absence would be noted. And there was no conceivable use in keeping her.

"Very well," he conceded, "I will return you to the Opera, where you will be able to go back to whatever futile existence you wish. However, should you whisper so much as a word to anyone of what you have seen this night, the consequences will be dire. I am the Opera Ghost, mademoiselle, and not a whisper escapes me within the walls of the _Garnier_."

"Then you must suffer from frightful headaches, Erik," Hero riposted wryly, "but you waste your breath on threats. I will keep your secret and speak not a word. I will return later tonight, as I have already promised, though after four hours of sleep, you might find yourself wishing that I had not."

Erik motioned towards the door, inclining his head in mock courtesy. The walk was conducted in silence as Hero tried to memorise the route. At last, they emerged in one of the plush corridors in the lower parts of the _Opera_, near to the chorus's dressing rooms.

Hero turned to smile at her strange new acquaintance. "Thank you," she said softly, "and goodnight. And Erik, do at least try to be a little kinder to the prima ballerina. She's recently lost the love of her life, you know." She walked away humming a bar of his nocturne. He watched her retreating back in astonishment.

_She's recently lost the love of her life, you know._


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: This one is a bit longer than usual. Thanks for reading and for the lovely reviews! Enjoy the chapter!**

**Chapter 7:**

Lady Dalrymple had always told her daughters that nothing was so vital after a late night at a ball or a rout party as sleeping in the following morning. This allowed one to regain both one's colour and liveliness. There were few things worse in a young lady than to appear overtired and sallow and proceed to spend the day moping about the family parlour.

The lady would have been struck speechless were she to know that Hero, having spent most of the night at the subterranean abode of a gentleman who might possibly be a little mad, completely unchaperoned, had then proceeded to appear in public looking very far from suitably refreshed.

Had it been up to Hero, she would have been perfectly content to remain abed several hours longer. That choice was taken away from her by an indignant yell.

Germaine had been trying to retrieve her stockings from the chair where she had left them the previous night when she had tripped over the boots Jammes had left in the middle of the room. The yelp was followed by some bickering, by which point Hero had decided that even without Erik having his bit of fun scaring the dancers, she was not going to get more than a minute's uninterrupted sleep in the dormitory.

Then she remembered Madame Collot and the fact that she had a job to get to that morning.

With a resigned sigh, she climbed out from under the warm covers and proceeded to get dressed as quickly as possible in the chilly room. Jammes was shouting something about her best boots being squashed and Germaine was shouting about her ankles. It was lucky that the lighting was poor and the others were sleepily watching the argument unfold, because upon glancing over at the mirror Hero discovered faint bruising at her throat, left by Erik's lasso. It would only darken and get worse as the day progressed, she thought irritably. She had then quickly buttoned up the high collar of her blue day dress, before anyone else noticed the discolouration.

Hero used powder and rouge to disguise the circles under her eyes and the wan-ness of her cheeks. Putting her hair up with a few expert stabs of her silver pins, she joined the others over breakfast in the opera refectory, where many of the busy employees chose to take their morning meal. Hero had never been one to shirk breakfast, even though the refectory food left much to be desired.

The first half of her morning was spent tracking down plumes for a tenor's hat, which had mysteriously gone missing, and sewing buttons on endless frock coats. She did not think it had been worth getting up for. It was very dull work and things did not pick up until after two in the afternoon, when Hero was at last permitted to break for lunch and to fetch some boxes for the costume mistress. Privately, Hero hoped never to set eyes on another brown frock coat again.

OOO

It was a surprisingly warm day as Hero walked carefully back in the direction of the _Academie Nationale de Musique._ The snow that had fallen prettily just before lunch had yet to melt into a grey slush, and instead served to make the city look somewhat like an illustration in a children's book. She wore her warmest cloak and was careful to avoid stepping on any ice that had not been melted by the salt sprinkled in the streets that morning. Whatever was in the boxes, she did not want to accidentally drop it. She considered hiring a hansom, then thought better of it – the crisp air had done a good job of keeping her awake and she was enjoying the walk.

Paying little attention to people passing her in the street, she walked right by a familiar face. The tall gentleman, however, had no trouble recognising her, despite the fact that she wore a large bonnet and a wide scarf.

"Hero? I say, is that you?"

Startled at the familiar voice calling out in English, Hero turned around, almost toppling the stack of boxes as she did so. A helpful pair of hands reached out and steadied them. Hero's eyes met the mischievous ones of Andrew Darnell, who was the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, and who had been a dear friend since they had been children together. He seemed to have just come out of the coffee shop behind him, and was in the process of adjusting his fashionable greatcoat.

"Ah, I knew it was you. Dear Hero. I would embrace you, but I daresay you would lose those boxes of yours for certain then, and we would scandalise the public."

She chuckled, very pleased to see him. "I daresay. How good to run into you here, Andrew! Do you know, I find that I have missed you. What brings you to Paris?

"Why, it's a leisure visit, of course, my dear. What else would one come to Paris for?" He laughed inanely, projecting the image of the consummate dandy. Hero was not fooled. "I would ask why you are here, but that seems self-evident. Shopping again, Hero? You must be quite determined to ruin your father."

She smiled at him fondly. "Nonsense. My father could stand quite a few more of these. But as it happens I am not shopping for myself."

Andrew eyed the packages. "Really? How curious. You must tell me all about it, of course, but first let us get out of this damnable cold or get moving, at least." He took most of Hero's boxes, which she was quite happy to hand over, and they proceeded in the direction she had been taking.

"You know," the baron began idly as they proceeded down the street, "I have heard the most _entertaining_ stories of your whereabouts from our mutual friends recently, Miss Winterwood. Treasure, if you'll believe it, and something about a non-existent secret society objecting to having said treasure spirited from right under their noses."

They laughed together, their laughter carrying down the street and drawing disapproving glances from two elderly ladies who had stopped to exchange greetings outside a haberdasher's.

"Oh really, Andrew, how fanciful. Treasure? Why, I've been right here all along, in Paris, busy about my usual business."

"Ah, but didn't I tell you that you would laugh? No? Well, I certainly meant for you to be amused."

"I am surprised you chose Paris, though. You always swore that you couldn't abide French cooking."

"And so I can't but, you know, apart from the food, Paris is quite a marvellous place."

"Yes, of course. Another Grand Tour – your mother must have got the vapours when she heard. She's been waiting for you to tire of all the travelling. I understand she is getting quite impatient. She told _my_ mother so in the greatest confidence."

"Fine lady, the Lady Dalrymple, I've always said so. I am sure she shares my mother's sentiments."

"She does. I, of course, could never take the Grand Tour. One would have to be a gentleman to do that. But I think a tour of the more respectable parts of Europe with my Aunt Clara vexes mother just the same."

He looked pointedly about for the absent aunt. "Your Aunt Clara found reason not to come, I take it?"

"She cannot abide travelling, at her age, and she likes museums even less. So here I am."

"And what are you doing here exactly? Where are we going?"

They rounded a corner and came into sight of the opera, surrounded by people, horses and carriages. Hero motioned at the magnificent building.

"The _Garnier_. It's in a bit of disrepair, and very chaotic just at present, but I believe it will soon return to its former splendour. I've taken a position there as assistant to the costume mistress, and she has sent me to fetch these boxes."

"Yes, I can see there is quite a crowd milling about the place. How dreadful – I can't abide that much milling. You must simply get _lost_ in the throng. Your mother would be beside herself."

"How true. It can be a dreadful bore, mind you – why, just this morning I did almost nothing but sew on buttons."

"A bore, certainly. That is my opinion of all steady employment, my dear. It is obligatory to my station as a man of fashion and leisure. Very clever place to hide, however. I am impressed."

Hero did not deny the insinuation.

"I rather think so too. And now you have to tell me what it is that you are smuggling here in Paris – indulge my curiosity." Her voice had dropped and she grinned at him conspiratorially. Lifting her skirts with one hand as they crossed the dual carriageway, Hero carefully avoided the sludge on the road and the passing carriages and horses.

"Smuggling? Must you be so _gauche_? I prefer to think of it as the grey area in imports and exports."

"As you put it, then."

"Actually I am here with a mind to visiting old friends. You remember the good Comte de Chance, don't you?"

She did.

"Well, it seems he has managed to annoy his rather powerful relations. It's a wonder how he did it – they live all the way in Lisbon, you know. Besides, I struggle to imagine how anyone could dislike the fellow, but there you have it." His mouth curled into an ironic little smile. "It seems the comte has come into possession of a very special signet ring – key to his grandfather's fortune, which ought to have passed to his cousin by rights of succession. His cousin, I am given to understand, has not been in the best of health and is quite anxious that should he succumb to his malady, his daughter will not be left penniless. He has _commissioned_ my aid to make certain that that does not happen. I am to retrieve the ring, and deliver it to the pretty Juana da Costa."

"How chivalrous," Hero commented dryly. "I daresay she offered a handsome reward."

"I'm greatly offended that you would assume I need the promise of reward to help a lady," Andrew sniffed indignantly, the overall effect ruined by an amused glint in his eyes. "But, yes, if you must know, the pay is just handsome enough to tempt – one needs to keep one's own estate afloat, after all. And I _am _somewhat in dun territory."

"Not to mention the unthinkable expense of maintaining your meticulous wardrobe – why, I would guess that just the silk handkerchiefs alone set you back over five hundred a year, with the way you're always losing them. I would imagine that if not for such happy accidents as this unfortunate lady's ring, you would never be _out_ of dun territory. You might wish to reconsider the Spanish lace edging."

"Nonsense! What has a gentleman to go by, if not his appearance?"

"You're right, of course – it is much more difficult to have a boxful of common sense delivered to your home in Town." While Andrew pretended to be offended by the rejoinder, Hero went on speaking. "Well! And how do you expect to retrieve the trinket?"

"Why, what a silly question, my dear – it is the usual sort of thing, isn't it? The rest of the fellows have already arrived to help, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Flynn will be happy to hear that you are about."

Charles Flynn, who never missed an opportunity to remind Hero of his devotion, had already offered for her on several occasions, only to be met with an amused refusal each time.

"One of these days father will overhear him and take him at his word, and then it'll take all Flynn's wits to escape my mother. Or perhaps I shall accept, merely for the pleasure of seeing the horror on his face. But you have not finished explaining your plans. How will you get close enough to the ring to steal it? The comte has taken certain precautions, I imagine, especially given the outcome of our last encounter."

"Why, is that caution I hear, Miss Winterwood? Shame on you – when uncertainty is what makes the whole exercise such a fine diversion.'

"True. I suppose next I am to hear your bid to get me involved. But you need not exert yourself – I shall help."

"Are you certain, my dear? It seems to me you would do well to keep your head down for a while."

Perceiving the twinkle in his eyes, Hero gave Andrew a long, earnest look. "I daresay I'll manage just fine, _my lord_. You know, I don't expect that I shall linger very long over my career at the Opera. 'Wardrobe Mistress's Assistant' is not a position to bring much in the way of excitement."

"I am glad to hear it. It's really not the sort of thing at all, for the daughter of Lord Dalrymple. What would they say in London?"

"You're teasing me."

"Ah, guilty. Well, Miss Winterwood, now that I have told you the whole and made a clean breast of it, perhaps you will oblige me by doing the same? What exactly did you steal?"

"Hah! I doubt you have ever in your life told the whole, my dear Andrew. But I shall oblige. It's really nothing too spectacular – a pendant that apparently contains some sort of powder to restore youth and grant longevity. It's said to have miraculous healing properties. I couldn't even find where it opens, so I highly doubt there is any truth in it at all."

"Some sort of Methuselah Stone? Well, that'll be a story worth telling – and a treasure worth finding, of course, provided that it's at all true. And it certainly seems to be worth something to your persistent new friends."

"Yes. That is why I have hidden it. I shall wait for them to lose the scent, and then dispose of it, privately and quietly. I am sure there are collectors who would have it, even if it's just a bauble. It's quite a pretty thing." They stopped outside the Opera.

"I don't suppose you would share the bauble's location?"

"Not just yet. Better that I alone should know where it is, if worse comes to worst."

"Why, my dear, do be careful. You are bordering on morbidity, and that is not to be borne."

"Ah, forgive me. But now we are here and I must bid you _adieu_ and be on my way. The costume mistress will flay me alive if her boxes are late." She relieved him of her boxes.

"Are you certain you do not wish me to carry them the rest of the way?"

"Thank you, but I shall manage quite well."

"Very well," he said, walking her to the door and holding it open for her. "In that case, I will say goodbye for now. However, I insist on taking you to lunch tomorrow. Everyone will be delighted to see you, and we can talk further then." With a quick bow to Hero, Andrew withdrew.

"Hero?" Meg and Susanne had been in the foyer, curiously watching Andrew take his leave, and they wasted no time in coming over to Hero. "Who was that dashing gentleman? An admirer perhaps? He was speaking English."

"Andrew is the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, actually, though he is English and an old friend of mine."

"How fortunate you are in your friends! Handsome and titled!"

"And you are very welcome to him, I'm sure, my dears, because he is certainly not my suitor," Hero teased, before making her excuses and hurrying off to find Madame Collot.

OOO

As luck would have it, Madame Collot had no further use for Hero and she was let off early enough that she managed to steal some sleep in the dormitories before making her way back down to the fifth basement as she had promised. She was not in a stormy mood at all, though she had threatened the Opera Ghost that she would be..

Most of the opera house employees were still busy with _Rigoletto_ and Hero knew she would not be missed. She had decided to miss dinner with the rats that night, so that she might be back earlier. Retrieving her little bag from her chest, she one again wrapped herself in her warm shawl and hurried to the corridor where Erik had left her the previous night.

OOO

She had no trouble finding the right passage, though she had to approximate the place where Erik's hidden panel blended with the worn wall paper. He had somehow reinforced the door, because when she had knocked along the wall in search of a hollow echo, there was none to be heard. She spent a long time minutely looking over every inch of the wall, wondering if she was even in the right place before she found it again, by a slight discoloration at the opening.

Once Hero had located the door, she began searching for a mechanism with which to open it, hoping that it did not only open one way. She found it at last by applying slight pressure to a flower pattern near the top of where she believed the opening to be. She felt something click quietly on the other side. The door opened with another push, swinging quietly inward on hinges that had been recently oiled.

Stepping into the maze, she scented a slight dampness in the air. Hero took a moment to light the candle she had stored in her bag the previous night, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark before proceeding. Ignoring a persistent sense of _déjà vu_, she stepped lightly and carefully as she walked, in case she happened across anymore traps. A few times she had to double back, when she found that she had taken a turn down a passage she did not recognise. A rat crossed her path once, scurrying past her in the dark, and eventually, by a process of trial and error, she had found her way down to the underground lake. Hero was fairly confident that she had done so without accidentally setting off anymore of Erik's hidden alarms.

The lake was silent and dark before her, just as it had been the previous night. She wandered along the edge of the water a moment, taking in her surroundings for future reference. She wondered if there was a way out onto the street from the cavern, just as there was the shaft of light above the lake. She spotted a boat on her side of the lake, low in the water and hidden by a protrusion of rock, and a pair of oars lay in the wooden craft. Upon closer inspection, there did not seem to be any water inside the boat, which meant that it had no serious leaks.

She contemplated rowing across the still lake as she inspected the boat, wondering how steady it actually was. There was a light mist rising off the surface on the other side, suggesting the presence of a warm spring. She supposed she could simply take the tunnel Erik had taken the previous night, but it would be a while before she could locate the opening mechanism and rowing seemed a lot simpler.

Her mind made up, Hero clambered awkwardly into the boat, which rocked beneath her. Holding onto the rock outcropping, she carefully sat down in the stern. Carefully setting the oars in the rings either side of the boat, Hero almost dropped one into the water. She untied the rope that held the boat secured to an iron ring set in the stone and pushed herself away from the bank.

Hero's rowing was clumsy at first, as she got used to manoeuvring the craft across the glassy water while her loosely-tied corset creaked in protest. It felt somewhat eerie to be out on the lake, alone in the dark empty cavern, with her candle sniffed out and the only sound coming from the oars, which creaked, much louder than the muffled corset, and dripped water, disturbing the silence of the chamber. She felt like an intruder: as if she were not alone on the dark water. She had a vague sense that she was somehow disturbing some unseen presence just by being there.

The underground lake stretched out of the cavern and into another one, though Hero had no particular desire to find out where it led – her arms were already starting to complain. She was grateful to finally land near the wooden dock in the other side of the lake. It took a lot more fiddling to get the boat close enough to be able to secure it. Pulling the oars on the dock and tying the rope on another metal ring, she climbed onto the wooden structure, straightening her crumpled skirts as best she could and stretching her arms in an effort to relieve her aching muscles. She still had the unsettling feeling of being watched and stared steadily out over the water. She could spot nothing, and the mist continued to swirl. This annoyed her because she did not like the idea of being vulnerable to some unseen observer.

"I would not stand so long watching the water, mademoiselle." Erik had come up behind her, startling her and she spun around to face him, wide-eyed. Her legs somehow tangled in her long skirts and she almost lost her balance, toppling into the lake. Erik's arm instinctively shot out around her waist, steadying her. Hero inhaled sharply at the unexpected contact and Erik hastily withdrew his arm.

"Thank you." She smiled at him. "I wouldn't have liked to fall into the water."

He inclined his head politely, eyes flinty as he watched her.

"Why am I not to watch the lake?" she asked at last, to break the strange silence.

"There is a danger in the water: a siren. A darkness that will lure you in if you watch it too long and never let you go. It cannot resist the temptation."

Cocking her head to the side as she contemplated the unexpected reply, Hero wondered if he spoke in riddles. "Can't it? Well, Erik, I daresay I will have to take my chances with this siren of yours. But you will have to do better than ghost stories and fairy tales to keep me away, monsieur, for you see I am very fond of those."

"I will keep that in mind, mademoiselle," he replied, and she almost thought she heard a smile in his voice. "But in the meantime, perhaps we had best go in the house? You can tell me what you are doing here."

She nodded, and followed the tall man into his home. He was dressed all in black again, except for an elegantly-tied white cravat at his throat and a handsome waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread over black satin.

"I am surprised that you should ask me that, monsieur. I promised that I would return."

"I do not set much store by promises, mademoiselle."

"No? I am sorry to hear that, for I am always careful to keep my word. Perhaps, I may yet change your mind."

He laughed bitterly. "I have had a lifetime to learn otherwise, mademoiselle. You had best not trouble yourself. I would much rather hear how it is that you have managed to find your way back here and row across the lake."

"I believe that I have warned you of my keen sense of direction. I relied on that, as I often do. It was a process of trial and error. Though I confess I had some trouble discovering the door to the tunnels: the one behind that ghastly floral wallpaper. It does not echo when one knocks! Of course, that seems obvious in retrospect, but it's not what one expects when looking for hidden doors. You were very clever to think of it."

"It is a necessary precaution to take in my position, nothing else."

"Well, as to the rowing, it did take some time to accustom myself to the oars. I am not dressed for rowing, you know. But it was the quickest way across and so that it the way I chose. I am hardly a helpless swooning female, monsieur, and it _was_ just a boat."

Erik motioned her to the sofa, and Hero took a seat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, though the fire remained unlit. Erik took the other chair, steepling his gloved fingers as he regarded his guest.

"I may not keep up with current fashions, mademoiselle, but I understand it is not the usual practise with ladies, to be accustomed to rowing boats."

"Perhaps not – I do enjoy the odd bit of contrariness, Erik. You must allow me that. I am, perhaps, not the usual sort of lady."

"No. That much has become abundantly clear, though I have yet to decide what sort of lady you are, mademoiselle."

"'Hero', if you please. If we are to become friends, then we cannot stand on ceremony. And I am determined that friends we shall be. I will save you the trouble, however, and tell you that my interests lie in a direction that is not very appropriate for ladies of repute. I have an interest, you see, in treasure and artefacts, and the retrieval of such. I cannot quite help myself. I am afraid I rather thrive on such thrills."

Erik mulled over her words a moment before nodding. "I am not entirely sure I believe you, though your explanation would illuminate the extraordinary luck you had with my traps last night. It is, however, the sort of pursuit frowned-upon by our pejorative society, and you do not appear in any particular disgrace."

Hero laughed. "I am _not_ in any particular disgrace. None would frown more than my mother, I assure you, and so I do not make a practice of mentioning such things in society. As far as my family is concerned, I am seeing Europe with an elderly great aunt. A sweet woman, but one not given to much letter writing. It is half-true. I am, indeed, seeing Europe. My eccentric Aunt Clara, however, remains in Ireland."

"How convenient for you that she does. But I am hardly one to judge transgression. You have yet to tell me, however, why you really came back. What have you to gain?"

"I came back to keep you company. After all, you did save me, and I imagine that you do not see very many visitors, living in the fifth cellar of the National Opera. And since I owe you a debt of honour now, I saw no reason why I could not call on you at home. It is the sort of practice common among friends."

Erik was startled and suspicious, which in turn sparked anger within him. He did not like being mocked or toyed with, and he did not understand the world of accepted social interactions well enough to recognise whether the girl was being genuine. He had a notion that she was being somewhat improper in her visit. He did firmly understand, however, that young women did not volunteer to spend time with deformed recluses in theatre basements. And they most certainly did not offer friendship to Opera Ghosts.

Watching him carefully, Hero regretted being unable to see his face. Nonetheless, she felt him almost-visibly draw back, though he did not move an inch.

When he spoke his voice was terrible, the sort of voice she imagined death would have. "Enough! I will not permit you to play games with me, mademoiselle! I am neither a fool nor naïve! _Friendship! _As if you would offer friendship to a madman and a murderer! And Erik is a murderer, many times over, mademoiselle, he has told so you before. You wish something of Erik, and he will discover what it is, but you will not mock him, or you will be _very sorry_."

Hero waited until she was sure that he had calmed enough to listen. She wondered at the sort of life he must have led to have taught him such dreadful distrust. "And I have told you before that I am not playing any games. I need nothing from you, as you will soon discover. But I will not have you shout at me whenever I say something not to your taste. You will find, I think, that I have very little patience for shouting. I mean to be your friend, monsieur, whether you believe me or not." She bristled as she spoke, and rose abruptly from the armchair, irritably straightening the skirt of her dress.

She shot a dark look at the Opera Ghost before turning her attention to the cold fireplace. "Now, the least you could do, monsieur, is play host."

"I did not ask for any guests."

This earned him another dark look, before she turned to kneel at the cold fireplace, the skirt of her dress spreading over the carpet. Taking her little bag from across her shoulder, she dug in it, until she found what she sought, while the Ghost watched her without comment. Pulling out a box of matches, she struck one with nimble fingers and carefully lit a bit of torn newspaper in the grate. It had a picture on it of a handsome blond couple standing next to a train carriage. It was quick to catch aflame, and she shifted it with a poker until the logs began to catch fire as well.

Then, Hero turned to face the Phantom again, who had not moved from his armchair.

"Well, if you refuse to be polite, then I must look to my own comfort. It is cold as a tomb in here. It cannot be healthy and I will not have you catch your death just because you do not wish to accommodate your guests."

"You cross a line, mademoiselle. You have no right to meddle in my home, or light fireplaces that do not want lighting."

"I have a strong dislike of the cold, Erik, and if I must play at being Prometheus, then I shall. Now, I have also skipped supper to be here, and since you will not be a gentleman and offer me any repast, if indeed you _have_ any to offer, then I must take care of _that_ myself also."

Erik could not believe her impertinence as she swept out of the room and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a candle on the way. He had no way of knowing that the sweeping had been carefully executed to be as vexing as possible. He was caught between following her and putting out the fire, which was unwelcome in his home. Fire was no use to the dead: it served only to remind them of what they no longer possessed.

At last, with a hiss of impatience, he followed her, wondering if he had grown so tired and weak at last that he could not even get rid of a tiresome young woman invading his privacy. He wondered if her bravery was in part nothing more than bravado, but something in the amused way she sometimes looked at him told him that this was not so. She seemed genuinely unafraid, and he wondered why.

She was pottering around his kitchen, having lit his stove also, and placed two candles on the table. It made the place seem almost comfortable. It had probably never seen so much activity, and he felt a stranger in his own kitchen.

Humming to herself, she disappeared into his pantry. He could hear her rummaging in his icebox, before she returned with some eggs, which he did not remember having but which the Persian must have dropped off when he came for his regular visit to irritate Erik and deliver foodstuffs. It was beyond Erik why he did that, since the food would mostly all go to waste.

She ignored him, and returned to the pantry. Erik followed, trying to determine what she was about, only to find her balanced precariously on one of the shelves, reaching for the last remaining onion, which sat just out of reach. He watched as she stretched, snagged the onion with her fingers, then squealed and lost her footing. He caught her before she could destroy half his pantry.

His thin arms were surprisingly strong and Hero's startled eyes met his as he securely lowered her to the ground. Hero noted absently that she could feel his touch on her bare wrist, even through his leather glove, and that it was unexpectedly cold. Something in his eyes arrested her and she did not immediately move back. Erik, too, noticed her continued proximity with pronounced disbelief.

"Your hands are cold," she whispered, a little breathlessly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the strange moment.

Her words seemed to break him out of his reverie. He drew back immediately.

"The touch of death," he said in a chilling voice. "What did you think you were doing, climbing my shelves?"

Frowning at his first statement, she did not immediately register the question. "I was reaching for the onion. Why would you keep onions on the top shelf? And I had a hold on it, when I felt something scuttle across my other knuckle. It was a silly thing to do, but I let go, and you caught me before I could really fall. Thank you for that. You keep catching me." She shot him a winning smile before handing him the onion, picking up a piece of cheese and leaving the store room.

"It was a spider, you know. I am very sure. Dreadful things! I simply can't abide them."

"Of course not. They are so _dreadfully ugly_ to behold," he hissed, eyes flashing intensely. "Well, mademoiselle, it would surprise you to know that spiders are the least of the horrors that await down in my _lair_." The next moment he had left the room, his strides angry.

Hero looked at the empty doorway for a while, reviewing the conversation in her head, wondering what she had said to offed him. Absently, she cleaned the onion and began chopping it, ignoring her stinging eyes in favour of the puzzle. She chopped quickly and untidily, emptying the onions into a large bowl, where the added the eggs and cheese, whisking the lot with a fork she had found.

Erik was such a prickly man; she found she had a lot of trouble predicting his reaction one moment to the next. But she remembered what she had been told about the horrors that lay under his mask, and the pretty singer he had apparently loved. The singer he most likely _still_ loved.

"Idiot!" she berated herself. Rinsing her hands, she quickly melted butter in a large pan, poured in the mixture and sprinkled some salt and pepper. In a matter of minutes, the omelette was ready. Dividing it in half, she picked up Erik's plate and followed the Opera Ghost out of the kitchen.

Erik was not difficult to locate. She followed the music, past the sitting room and through another door, which opened into yet another tapestried passage. Singling out the first door on the right, Hero opened it without knocking, and was astonished with the sight not only of a piano, a desk and stacks and stacks of parchment and music sheets, but a myriad other instruments placed around the room. Erik sat at the piano, his shoulders tense as he played a series of grim minor chords.

"Erik."

The music stopped.

"Mademoiselle. Again you encroach upon me. I believe I made it clear when I left your company that I wished solitude, and I _will_ have solitude in my music room when I wish it." His voice sounded dangerous. Hero sighed.

"I believe I may have said something to offend you, Erik. I did not mean to imply that you were in any way repulsive to me, or compare you with the spider. Nothing could have been further from my mind and I am sorry that you took it that way. Now, I will leave you to your music, but I have made supper, a poor supper though it may be, and I have brought you some."

"I do not eat," he informed her imperiously, turning around to regard her stonily.

"Fiddle. Of course you do, though perhaps not as much as you should. Now, don't be childish."

"_Childish?_ I beg to disagree, mademoiselle. To be childish is to deny what is right before your eyes. A corpse, _a ghost_, cannot eat. Cannot live."

"By nature of being dead. You are, perhaps, being a touch dramatic, but I agree with the logistics. How fortunate for us, then, that you are neither a corpse nor an apparition, Erik. If that is what you believe then it's no wonder the ballet _corps_ are telling stories of walking skeletons! And if only you ate more, you might not have to worry over your touch being so cold. I won't have you starving yourself to death." Leaving the plate next to him, she exited the room, failing entirely to slam the door dramatically in her wake.

Outside, she froze silently, listening. There was the faintest metallic sound of a knife and fork. Smiling in satisfaction, she headed back to the kitchen.

By the time she had finished her own supper and went in search of Erik, she found him in his study, two doors away from the kitchen. The room was in anarchy, though she was sure that Erik would have insisted that he knew exactly where everything was to be found. Inkwells and pens lay scattered about on tables, which were piled with books and papers and sketches. The sketches appeared to be architectural designs for buildings and models of strange machines. The plate she had brought him lay on an old stack of parchment, which appeared to be a plan of the opera, covered in scribbles and notations in red ink. The plate was almost empty.

Erik sat at a tall-backed chair amidst the chaos, deeply immersed in a book the title of which was too faded for Hero to be able to make out. Erik tried to ignore Hero as she made a show of smugness picking up the plate. Just as she was about to leave without having said a word, he slammed his book shut and looked up at her, pinning her with his stare.

"You presume to meddle in my life, mademoiselle, yet you know nothing of it."

"No? Then enlighten me. Is there anyone who does?" She riposted.

"You believe me to have chosen this solitude of my own will? It was imposed upon me, and now I have no need of society. I have _no need_ of a confidante. I answer to no one!"

"And you have grown so accustomed to this solitude that you fear to lose even a miniscule shred of control over it, by confiding in another. Because, to confide you need to trust and to do that you must give of yourself. You fear the chaos that is an intrinsic part of people, and that is ironic, because you thrive on chaos."

She supposed from the angry silence that her summation had hit the mark.

He rose from his chair and briskly crossed the room to tower menacingly over her. "How dare you to suppose you know my fears! That I possess _any_ such fears! You, a child of light!"

"If I am wrong, then prove me so!" Hero snapped back, refusing to be intimidated.

"I have no reason to wish to prove myself to you!"

"Very well, if not me, then what of yourself? Even as we argue, in your head you are listing all the reasons why I cannot possibly be correct. Prove wrong that voice at the back of your mind, whispering questions you'd prefer not to answer. If you are not afraid of chaos, of people and of me, then live the life that you believe closed to you. Accept my challenge. Live, if only for a week."

He knew she was baiting him, purposely picking a quarrel, and that the thing to do would be to dismiss her words and send her away from his home – Erik had a brilliant mind, after all. But he was also aware of his own brilliance, and this made him arrogant. Hero was very good at issuing challenges – her grey eyes glinted mockingly at him, and her lips were twisted in a smirk, as if she was well aware of the direction his thoughts were taking. It was dreadfully infuriating. Before he was even properly aware of it, his pride had outweighed his common sense.

"I assure you, I am not afraid. Very well, you may have your week, and then you shall realise your folly. After that you will never again speak of the matter." His tone was calm now, making plain how little her challenge affected him.

Hero flashed a maddening smile of triumph. "Good! Then we have an accord, monsieur. Why, this is almost operatic, don't you think?"

A yowl coming from the study door startled them before Erik had a chance to say something cutting. A brown and white Siamese cat sat disdainfully in the doorway.

Hero's face broke into the sort of ridiculous grin only cats can inspire, proving that a little fluffy animal with big eyes could reduce a grown woman to a babbling idiot.

"I wouldn't go too near the cat, mademoiselle. Ayesha is none too fond of strangers." Erik could still remember the inexplicable antagonism between Ayesha and Christine. Hero paused half way to Ayesha and her expression suggested that he had just said something very stupid, before turning her attention back to the cat and extending a hand to stroke her soft fur.

Erik watched with some astonishment as Ayesha failed to shred Hero's hand on first contact. In fact, the cat seemed to purr as Hero knelt next to her, murmuring some kind of inanities. He could make out the words 'kitty', 'precious' and 'fluffy', and concluded that he was better off not hearing anymore. Approaching Hero just as she was straightening, and making a half-hearted attempt to bush the fur off the skirt of her green dress, he scooped the cat up with surprising tenderness. He produced what looked like a genuine diamond collar and fastened it around Ayesha's neck while she lay obediently still in his arms.

While he did not take care of himself at all, Erik seemed to dote on the cat. Ayesha looked every inch well-fed and happy. She had a soft, shiny coat and a self-satisfied manner.

"Now, how did you do that, I wonder? She usually wastes no time in employing her claws," Erik said to Hero, briefly glancing up from the cat.

"I've always held it that cats can naturally recognise people from who they have the potential of getting more food than they ought. I have no doubt she spotted the omelette. You called her Ayesha?" Hero asked, scratching under the cat's chin as the feline basked in the attention. Erik's shoulders stiffened at Hero's nearness but she did not appear to notice.

The Opera Ghost nodded. "It is a Persian name. I found her during the Commune and she took that as an invitation to make my home hers permanently."

Erik sat the cat down on one of the lavish divans around his study and Ayesha contentedly turned away from them, curling up and going to sleep.

"That music you were playing, I have never heard its like before. Did you compose it?" Hero asked, because he suddenly appeared to be in a better mood than usual, and she thought she might convince him to divulge something of himself.

OOO


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. I'm afraid postgrad is taking up more of my time than expected. But I haven't abandoned the story!**

**Chapter 8:**

Christine De Chagny stood on a pretty Venetian balcony, overlooking the Grand Canal. She shivered involuntarily as a gust of wind hit her, and wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. It was, she thought, an unfortunate time of year for a honeymoon. Raoul had taken the _palazzo _at her request. He had thought they would have been better off in a hotel, but Christine found she could not stomach the bustle of other guests around them, the noise and the music.

She could hear him moving around in the room behind her – his valet was helping him adjust his cravat for the customary evening walk the young count and countess took every evening. Any moment now, he would come and talk her back into the room – he did not like for her to stand out in the cold. Raoul had been largely brought up by nursemaids, sisters and aunts, all of them prone to fuss and over-react. Christine could see traces of this in her husband's behaviour.

It was their last night in Venice: they were to set out for France in the morning and Christine was sorry to have to leave, but it was inevitable. Raoul had family estates to attend. He had perceived her reluctance the night before, and in a moment of fancy had offered up any number of destinations to which they could travel next, estates be damned. But that had been too much like running and Christine suspected that once they started running, they might never stop, so she had thanked him, and kissed him, and called her maid to help her pack.

There were friends in Paris, after all, and her husband's family, and Mama Valerius. Christine felt somewhat guilty at having left the woman for so long, when she had been like a mother to her. Her own mother had died when Christine had been too young to remember much of her besides golden hair and a scent of raspberries, and even that might have been nothing more than her imagination. Christine had learned the dangers of imagination a little too well.

Perhaps, she decided, France would not be so bad. They would go straight to Chagny, and stay there, without setting foot in the Paris town house. The idea of having to be a countess was almost as alarming as living her life in the shadow of the _Garnier_. Christine tried not to think about that. She did not permit her mind to dwell on Erik. She did not like to imagine she had been responsible for anyone's death, however indirectly, and she did not like to think of what would have become of her had she stayed. She felt guilty for this, too – Erik had loved her in his own way, and a part of her had loved him. His voice had been a comfort to her on many a lonely night.

"Don't fret, my dear," her husband's voice said next to her as he joined her on the balcony. "The country won't be at all dull. My sisters have promised to visit, and my cousin, who is certain to adore you! And there will be Trouville in the spring, with the sea and the beach – it is very fashionable."

That was alarming in itself, Christine thought. She had never been very fashionable by the standards of the opera, and she did not know how to be fashionable in Raoul's world either. Nor witty or well-bread. She was certain that she would never keep straight the names of all the notables flocking around the parties and she was sure to embarrass herself as soon as she was called upon to speak.

She turned to look at him leaning against the railing, immaculately dressed as always. He offered her his arm gallantly. "Will we take our stroll now?"

With an answering smile, she placed her gloved hand on his arm. Raoul, for all his occasional boyishness, was the epitome of gentleness. Perhaps France would not be so very unbearable after all.

OOO

It was only their second glass of wine and Hero was beginning to wonder how Andrew and his cohorts managed any pretence at secrecy at all. They certainly didn't seem to be trying just then. They were having lunch at a fashionable little place located in a back alley and frequented, if the current crowd was anything to go by, by an odd mixture of _artistes_ and Paris's upper crust. It was exactly the sort of place where an unchaperoned young lady could comfortably partake of a meal with a group of young men without any raised eyebrows. Lady Dalrymple would have said that even knowing of such an establishment would assure a young lady utter infamy. Hero's friends talked and laughed as loudly as any of the other giddy revellers. Hero had worn her most ostentatiously fashionable hat for the occasion, trimmed with a scrap of lace and no less than three plumes, dyed a bright blue. It was the sort of hat that actresses favoured, and it had received a number admiring glances since her arrival.

Sir Charles Flynn, a baronet of excessive charm, had taken care to be seated just across from Hero, so that he could make a proper job of staring at her languidly across the table. "Hero, my dove, I understand you are to join us on our little excursion?" He was a sandy-haired young man with a wide, often smiling, mouth.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Charles. Though I'm certain you already know that," she countered, with a smile of her own.

"Well, if Hero is to be of any assistance in our latest endeavour, then she should be educated concerning the plan," drawled Sir Dominic de Lascy, whose foppish apparel could easily rival Andrew's.

"You have the right of it, Lascy!" agreed the Hon. Mr Torin Gilchrist, "To business, then. It seems, Hero, that de Chance will force our hand to move earlier than expected." He paused dramatically and adjusted his cravat.

Hero watched him with a raised eyebrow. Torin had a very healthy sense of drama.

"A dam- _dashed_ nuisance he's been," Sir Charles threw in, with a guilty look at Hero which made her raise both eyebrows at him.

"You've never watched your language on my account before, Charles. It would be ludicrous to start now," she told him.

Gilchrist cleared his throat pointedly and she relented.

"Oh, very well, Torin. I'm suitably intrigued. Please continue – what mischief has de Chance been up to now?"

"A contact of Barbezac's in the de Chance residence here in Paris seemed to suggest that the Comte does not mean to remain in town much longer. It seems something has come up and he is wanted directly to London as soon as possible."

Hero considered these words, nodding thoughtfully. "I see. Then we are to move before he leaves Paris. But when?"

Andrew looked particularly pleased as he answered her question. "Ah, and here is the beauty of it! I am surprised you have not heard, situated as you are at the National Opera, but the scoundrel means to host a winter masquerade ball in two weeks' time."

At the full implication of Andrew's words, Hero exchanged devious smiles with the young baron. "Really? How convenient! And very tasteful, of course – masquerades are very much the fashion, you know."

"The Comte de Chance is nothing if not fashionable," contributed Alister Barret, Lord Worthington, a viscount and the oldest member of the little group.

"And he is also nothing if not calculating. What is the ball really about?" Hero asked, taking a sip from her little coffee cup.

"How cynical you have grown, Miss Winterwood!" exclaimed Flynn admiringly, before lowering his voice again. "As it happens, the masquerade is in honour of a Comte de Chagny: some young aristocrat who has recently inherited his brother's position as head of the de Chagny family. Very influential and very wealthy – they own vast lands all over France. It seems de Chagny has just returned from his honeymoon, or is expected back presently, and I suppose de Chance means to please the young countess with his masquerade."

"But what does he stand to gain from de Chagny?"

"De Chagny is young, and much more flexible in his outlook than his older brother had been. I understand our friend means to win him over into a business partnership. You know de Chance has taken a step to meddling in trade?"

"Trade? Oh dear. And he thinks this new count is flexible enough to throw his lot into trade, as well? Even though he is already wealthy, or so you say." Hero could not help the note of doubt that had entered her voice.

"The young countess was some sort of actress, I hear. He certainly sounds to be of the new breed of Parisian nobility."

Hero inclined her head at that, still thinking over what she had been told. The count's name sounded familiar, and she wondered where she might have heard it before.

"Of course, we have reason to believe that the masquerade is also an excuse to show off his newly repaired chateau just outside Paris. He purchased it at an exorbitant price from some unfortunate fellow who'd lost all on the horses," added Lascy. His statement was met with a round of chuckles.

"If I know de Chance, he'll be offering guided tours," said Hero wryly.

"And knowing him is certainly an advantage – I doubt he's changed his ways at all." Andrew's voice was suddenly grave. "It's a reason to exercise caution. He's a peacock sure enough, but a clever, capable peacock. Not to mention excessively fond of intrigue.

"Ah, that arrow is aimed at me, I imagine," said Hero. "Let me assure you once again, Andrew, that I am not at all likely to succumb to any attempt at seduction de Chance is likely to make. I find myself entirely immune to his particular brand of charm. And given the small fortune we tricked from under his nose the last time we met, I'd say he's not likely to feel at all amorous towards me."

Worthington did his best to stifle a chuckle at this, and earned a disapproving look from Barbezac, which he promptly ignored.

"Indeed. Well, be that as it may, the plan is to obtain three invitations, which shouldn't be too difficult to do at a price, and infiltrate his little party. As everyone will be in costume he is not likely to recognise us. Gilchrist will drive us and then wait near the estate in the brougham, with the other carriages. Lascy will find an excuse to make his way out into the gardens within the first hour, and I shall quietly make my way upstairs, in search of the study, where I am told de Chance keeps his strongbox." Andrew glanced around briefly, to make sure they were following him, before launching back into his plan. "I will then signal the correct window and return to inform Hero of the layout. Hero will excuse herself to the powder room, find the study, unlock the strongbox and toss the ring down to Lascy. Then you will both return to the ballroom and we will stay for at least an hour."

The others, no doubt having heard the plan many times, nodded absently.

"It seems sound enough. And in the event that things don't go as intended, it leaves us some opportunity for manoeuvring our way out," Hero said.

"I must say that I am pleased you have all come to acknowledge my superior driving, at last" declared Gilchrist brightly.

"I would think, given that you will be driving a brougham, they have done quite the opposite, my dear Torin," laughed Hero. "But take comfort, I don't think curricles are at all the thing for winter nights."

The conversation moved on to less weighty matters, and they spent a very happy few hours exchanging news and gossip about mutual friends back home. When Hero decided that she had best be heading back to the _Garnier,_ it was already half three and it would soon be getting dark. 

"Well, it was lovely to see you again, but I'm afraid I had better return now," Hero said, rising from the table. The gentlemen rose to say their farewells and promise to visit her at the opera house soon. Andrew offered to drive Hero to the opera in his berlin, which she happily accepted.

"I shall bring you a rose, my dear Hero! It will be a compliment to your beauty," declared Flynn theatrically.

"Then I pray you bring me a tulip, Charles, for I find myself in the mood for tulips," Hero teased. "Goodbye."

They put on their cloaks and left the little restaurant. Andrew led the way to his hired carriage, while detailing to Hero all the merits of the vehicle.

"…I might even purchase one like it for myself in London!"

"You might, but you wouldn't drive it," Hero pointed out, amused. "It is very big, and not very daring. You'd still drive your curricle, or perhaps your barouche, and remark that you mean to take the brougham out the next time. Then perhaps you would give it to your mother."

"Mother _would_ like it…" Andrew mused, and Hero grinned.

"Hero! Hero, please wait for us!"

Surprised to hear Hero's name called out in the street, the couple turned in the direction of the voices. Suzanne came hurrying towards them, accompanied by Meg and Jammes, who had worn a fashionable, if slightly off-season, cloak and appeared to be shivering. Meg, whose cheeks were pink from the cold, and whose eyes were bright with the effort of the brisk walk, looked startlingly pretty, and Hero noticed Andrew's eyes lingering on her face.

"We thought it was you, Hero! But what are you doing here? Good afternoon, monsieur." Suzanne's attention was fixed entirely on the young Englishman.

Smoothly switching to French, Andrew returned the greeting.

"Hello," said Hero, "We are just come from luncheon. Were you shopping? This is a friend of mine from home, Andrew, the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. I think you glimpsed him at the _Opera_. Andrew, meet Mlles Suzanne Bonet, Marguerite Giry and Cecile Jammes. They dance in the _corps de ballet_ at the _Garnier_."

"A pleasure," said Andrew politely, with a dazzling smile.

"You remembered my name!" exclaimed Jammes in delight, drawing a look of surprise from Andrew. "Hardly anyone does, you know."

"Why ever not?" the Englishman asked, charmed by the ballerinas.

"At the _Opera,_ everyone always calls me Jammes, and some do not even realise it is not my Christian name," laughed the ballerina. "Meg will know what I mean."

Andrew's curious eyes went to the dark-haired ballerina, who smiled and explained, "I'm always little Meg, or little Giry: often even to people my own age or younger. It comes of growing up at the _Academie de Ballet _at the _Opera._"

"How curious!" Andrew was thoroughly diverted.

"I suppose nicknames are very much a school thing. I've never met a school boy who went without," said Hero.

"Oh, yes. Whatever your name at school might be, it's _certainly_ better than being without one," agreed the Englishman. "But you are shivering, and here I am, chattering away. Do forgive me!"

"Oh, no, it's just Jammes. We told her not to wear the green cloak. It is much too cold still," Suzanne sniffed.

"It _is_ a very nice cloak, Jammes," Hero complimented.

"We'd only come out to look at bonnets, and it shouldn't have taken so long, only Suzanne couldn't seem to make up her mind. But now we are headed back – Madame Dubois will give us a terrible scold if Jammes catches cold. She's to dance in the front row," added Meg, looking very much like she dreaded having to endure another of the ballet mistress's scolds.

"Then permit me to drive you!" Andrew offered gallantly, his smile beaming with particular brightness when he looked at Meg.

"Oh, we could not impose," Suzanne began.

"Nonsense!" announced Hero with cheerful briskness, "Andrew was about to drive me anyway, and I'm sure he'd be only too happy if you were to come also. After all, he spoke with me at luncheon and must be longing for a change of company!"

"It would be my pleasure!" laughed Andrew, knowing when he was being teased.

"Well then, that's settled. And I won't even badger Andrew to let me drive, so that he can show you how well he controls a pair!"

A footman came forward to help the ladies aboard, before taking up his place behind the carriage, and they were off. It was a very merry drive, with the ballet rats chatty with relief at not having to walk much farther in the cold and Andrew at his most charming. Hero noticed that he even took care not to drive as recklessly as he usually did.

When they arrived at the _Garnier_ it had already grown dark and a light snow had begun to fall.

"Well, I do hope that this won't be our only meeting," said Andrew as he drew to a halt outside the opera house.

"What my dear friend is trying to say," said Hero, her eyes dancing with mischief, "is that he means to come to see you at the National Opera."

"And, indeed, he must!" exclaimed Jammes, "Why, he might even come and see _Rigoletto _when it opens! There is a wonderful bit of ballet in the first act."

"That is, if _monsieur le baron_ even likes opera!" said Meg, smiling up at him.

"Ah, but I do. Very much. And I shall be honoured to visit with Hero's friends. But you had better be going inside before the snow picks up!" he said, observing that Jammes was just staring to shiver again.

"Well, good bye, Andrew. I daresay I shall see you soon!" said Hero. With a bow at the ladies, the young man climbed back up into his carriage and drove away, waving at them one last time.

"Now, I hope that you are quite satisfied that Andrew is no suitor of mine," Hero laughingly told the other girls as they made their way back to their dormitories, to put on dry clothes.

It was Meg who replied, sweeping into the entrance hall. "Oh, quite satisfied."


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: ****A huge thank you to everyone reading, and for all the wonderful reviews! I'm sorry it took so long to update this. Real life has been getting in the way.**

**Chapter 9 **

The music called to Erik, even as he tried to resist its siren pull. It had done as long as he could remember: it had always been the surest and the only constant voice in his life. He knew that inevitably he must and would succumb. The Opera Ghost stood across the room, staring at the pipe organ he had built with his own hands. He had been very particular about it – every detail had been meticulously outlined and painstakingly crafted because through it he would bring the music to life. Day and night the music called to him. Always. It was his friend and his tormentor. Now it drew him more than ever. He could almost _feel_ it bubbling up inside him: new melodies and harmonies unfurling with every passing second. It was a dark music, and so he knew he must not succumb to its allure. It was the sort of music that tainted the heart and stained the soul, and it should never be committed to paper, set loose from the confines of his tortured soul.

If he closed his eyes he could picture it: the key, the chord progressions, the notes twining together, one after another. He could almost _taste_ the key change, the accidentals, the sharps and the flats. His long fingers clenched into fists, even as he felt himself surrender to the darkness, the solitude and, above all, the music. It blazed like a living force within him. He never could resist being pulled into it, no matter what else may occupy his mind.

Erik had been sketching at his drafting table when the music had come upon him. It was to be a house, though he didn't know what he could possibly want with a house, when he already had his house by the lake. A dreaded memory had returned to haunt him then, as it often did: a memory that even the clarity granted him by opium had been unable to banish. It clung to him, more vivid than ever. He thought of Mazenderan, of the voices and the faces: another limp body before him on the floor, another face showing nothing but surprise and only the faintest trace of acceptance around the eyes. A very young man, this one – so much unfulfilled potential. But the Sultan had been a fickle master.

Now he was at the organ, though he did not remember sitting down. His gloves lay forgotten on the floor, naked fingers lingering over the keys with all the familiarity of old lovers. Some of the notes were played like a lingering caress, while others were bashed out with all the unrestrained fury that had suddenly awoken within him. Erik did not pause to write the music down on score paper. It soared about him, a tangible thing, though not quite living, enveloping him in its spell.

OOO

The sound caught Hero just as she was about to enter the house by the lake. It snagged and swirled around her, full of frantic madness. Someone was playing the organ. It was like a wall of force, an embodiment of emotions without name. Hero didn't know much about music, but there was something desperate about the melody and the way it would not resolve. It felt _wrong_, as if it should never have been played. As if it had the potential to kill.

Her stomach twisted with an inexplicable sense of dread and she found that it was difficult to keep her breathing even. She carefully held on to the basket she was carrying because she was not sure she could entirely trust her hands. Hero opened the door and went inside. She felt an odd tingling at the back of her throat, as though she were about to cry, though she did not feel distressed. The music, she realised. It was the music that spoke of desolation and hopelessness.

Setting the basket on the floor, Hero followed the music to a room in which she had never been before. There was a coffin, she noticed with distaste, and dark hangings with the Requiem written on them. Instinctively she made her steps light and careful, though no one would have been able to hear her approach over the cacophony.

The organ was doubtlessly the focal point of the room. It towered unsettlingly with its many glinting pipes, and Hero almost forgot the coffin for looking at it.

Erik sat on a bench by the instrument, and to all appearances he was lost to the world. His hands moved furiously over the manuals, his feet over the pedals, and he did not even notice her approach. There was a glazed look in his eyes, which Hero did not like. She stood next to him, frozen for what felt like a very long time, as she debated what she ought to do. Hero considered trying to disturb him from his apparent delirium, but some instinct told her that that would only make things worse.

Instead she resolved to wait the music out and, as it reached a final crescendo, she felt sure he was trying to make the ceiling collapse over their heads. Something told her she was not meant to be in that room, to witness what was happening before her eyes. She wondered if she should have stopped him after all, but just as suddenly as it had come, the music faded and the Opera Ghost slumped over the keys.

The overtones hung in the hollow chamber after the music had gone; the decay much longer than it should have been.

"Erik?" Hero said gently, approaching him. He lifted his head a little, seemingly unsure where her voice was coming from.

"Leave me!" he barked, but he sounded too weak to be even remotely menacing, and she would have ignored his order either way. Hero rushed to his side, kneeling before him on the bare floor.

"The music – what was that dreadful music?" she demanded. "What were you thinking?"

"Some music is not meant to be heard and should never be written. You should not have come here!"

Hero was not quite sure what he meant, because if it was not meant to be heard he should not have played it, so she said nothing. She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, which shook from exhaustion. After a moment, he seemed to recover, rising briskly from the bench and swiftly moving away from her.

Unmarried women, after all, did not go into the bedrooms of strange men. Even in his dark cave Erik had to cling to some sense of decorum, some trace of the world above.

Hero rose to her feet also, and looked around. "The _Requiem_, Erik? I cannot say I think very much of your choice of decoration. And the coffin is ghastly, which is perhaps what you hoped to achieve, but it is also very silly, which I think you did not."

He stared at her strangely, without answering, and she found she could not read the look in his eyes. Something inexplicable hung between them, until Hero grew tired of standing around the depressing room.

"I have brought food," she informed him, moving forward and taking his arm without permission. "I'm very sure that part of your problem is the strange diet you keep, and that simply won't do."

She pulled him out of the room, and went to fetch the basket from where she had left it. Ayesha had already found her way to the food and was sniffing around with her front paws on the lid. Hero picked her up unceremoniously and handed her to Erik.

"Do hold the cat, and we'll see what we can do about finding some ham for her," she instructed with a note of infuriating bossiness in her voice. "Careful – she's in a rather wretched temper."

She proceeded into the kitchen, still talking. "I hope that you can cook a little, Erik, because I have it on good authority that I am very bad at it, and so I will need you to keep an eye on what I'm doing."

"Then do not bother yourself on my account," a voice said reasonably, directly behind her. Hero looked over her shoulder to fix Erik with a disapproving glare, only to find him leaning against the doorframe on the other side of the little kitchen.

"How did you do that?" she asked, lighting the stove with a long match and removing her warm shawl, before moving to cut some ham for the cat.

She could not see his face beneath the black leather mask, but she was certain he was smirking at her.

"I, mademoiselle, am the greatest ventriloquist in the world," he informed her.

She snorted indelicately. "A skill you have clearly been putting to good use around the opera house. This does explain the incorporeal voices in the corridors."

"Yes, it comes in very useful on occasion. Sorelli, for instance, believes that she heard her dead count's voice singing the _Kyrie_ to her in the night." He sounded monumentally proud of his little prank.

Hero's grey eyes met his yellow ones disapprovingly as she moved forward, closer than was strictly necessary, to take Ayesha from him and set her on the table next to a saucer full of tiny cubes of ham.

"Leave Sorelli alone," she told him. Her expression was quite steely.

Hero had been to visit Sorelli with the other girls, and she had glimpsed a photograph of the count on her dressing table. He had been a handsome man nearing middle age, with dark hair, proud aristocratic features and cool eyes, blue or perhaps grey.

"He was always a perfect gentleman to all of us ballet girls," Suzanne later told her. "And that cool look of his would always thaw when he spoke to La Sorelli. Imagine! He used to hold her gaiters for her when she went on stage: she always wore them so as not to dirty her sippers. It is quite a long way down from her dressing room. He never minded in the least."

OOO

After some more pottering about the kitchen, Hero managed boiled potatoes with butter and a creamy mushroom sauce of which she was particularly proud. She'd read the recipe in a book once, long ago, and somehow remembered.

"Now, eat," she told the Opera Ghost imperiously, sitting across the table from him.

She looked very pleased with herself, Erik thought darkly. He eyed the food dubiously.

"I have already told you, I believe, that I do not eat."

"We have already established, I believe, that you do," she countered carelessly. "And don't try telling me that you are already dead, or any such absurdity. I think we have also established, with sufficient certainty, that you have a pulse."

Hero picked up her own silverware and proceeded to eat. After a while, with an audible sigh, Erik picked up his, too, though he still did not touch the food.

"I must say, I did not expect to be able to master something so far advanced as sauce," Hero said after a while.

"You never learned to cook? I have always understood it to be normal practice with young women." This was meant as a barb, but it completely missed its mark.

Hero laughed. "Alas, I lack any inclination towards mastering the culinary arts, monsieur."

"Your mother never taught you?"

This engendered further mirth from his dinner companion. "Oh! No! I daresay mother has never _been_ to the kitchen. She has the loyal services of the best French cook in England. I, myself, was in the kitchen very often as a child. It was, after all, where the cookies were made."

"Somehow, that does not surprise me."

She gave him another mischievous grin. "Ah, I see what you are getting it, Erik, and I will tell you outright that mother's attempts to make a suitably delicate young flower out of me have not seen much success. I harbour no illusions in that direction. Father, on the other hand, knows that it is best to leave me to my own devices – he doesn't stand for coddling or milk-sop misses. After all, I have yet to be embroiled in any scandal and I have never come to any harm."

Erik noticed that she spoke of her family with a comfortable ease that suggested a happy upbringing. He was surprised at the lack of melancholy in her voice, however. He had seen many young women come to the _Opera_ to work and study, and almost all had been afflicted with homesickness. Erik himself had never had a reason experience any such thing, but he understood it to be common.

"Do you miss your family?" he asked curiously, watching her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen of some strange new species he'd just discovered.

"Miss them?" Hero repeated, taken by surprise. "Oh, not yet: I was home only recently! And one does enjoy one's self a great deal more without a mother's keen eye on every hoydensh thing one may wish to do. Independence is such a rare commodity, you know." An undeniable chill had descended over the kitchen once she had finished speaking and Hero shot the Opera Ghost a look of some surprise.

"No, mademoiselle, I would not know," he said icily. Too late it occurred to Hero that a man who lived in a house in the fifth basement of the opera house indeed would _not _know.

"Erik, I – " she began, mortified at having unwittingly hurt him.

"No, keep your pity, mademoiselle, for I want none of it," he cut her off.

"It is not pity. I misspoke and my words have hurt you, and for that I am sorry."

Erik did not know what to say, because he had never had anyone apologise over having wounded his feelings before. He stared at her suspiciously for a long while and there was silence between them.

"I wonder," Erik said at last, tersely, "what your ballet-girls would think if they knew you spend your spare time in the opera cellars, cooking supper for the Ghost."

Hero's eyes flew to his and she laughed. "They would think it a capital story, I expect! Even better than the one about you having a head of flame, or even a number of _different_ heads, which you interchange at will! That one is very popular. Started by a fireman, I am told, though _where _they found a fireman I'm sure I don't know. Is there one on the staff?"

"They come down to check the cellars and poke their noses where they don't belong."

"And so you thought to scare the poor man with one of your tricks? Well, at least I know you don't just make it a practise to pick on the poor ballet girls, and the chorus."

"Absurd creatures. They scare themselves more than I do them."

"Oh, yes, I know they do. And I didn't for a moment believe you had any interest in stealing the blue silk ribbon Jammes' _maman_ bought her for her hair. I would even go so far as to venture a guess that Jammes might have misplaced it all by herself."

Her eyes sparkled with mirth in a manner Erik thought rather pretty, catching the flickering candlelight.

"Would you, really?" asked Erik in a surprisingly droll voice.

"You are a very fashionable sight, just now, you know. I wonder that you have any spare time at all, with the frantic schedule you must keep to meet all those dancers all over the _Opera_. I have yet to meet a girl who doesn't claim to run into you at least once a week."

Erik snorted and Hero was sure he was about to say something snide when they heard footsteps in one of the rooms beyond. Erik was instantly on his feet, lithe and deadly, the lasso in his hands.

"Stay here," he ordered, already moving from the room.

Paying no attention to such ridiculous strictures, Hero rose to her feet and followed cautiously behind him. The passageway beyond was unlit, and Hero's dark blue dress blended well with the gloom. Her soft shoes made no noise as she walked.

Erik was already in the doorway of the sitting room and, in another moment, he was gone. Hero hurried after him, and froze incredulously at the sight that met her on the other side. Erik's lasso was around the neck of a tall Persian man, whose turban had been knocked askew in his struggle to free himself. It was, Hero realised, the very same gentleman she had met in the little antique shop, before she had come to work at the _Opera_.

"Daroga," Erik snarled. "What the devil are you doing here? Have I not told you never to venture into my house uninvited?"

"Release me, Erik," demanded the Persian. His voice was laden with all the irritation of many years' acquaintance. He did not seem particularly distressed at his current predicament. His hands were already moving to pull the lasso over his head. With an irritated sigh of his own, Erik retreated, though he left the other man to remove the lasso himself. As the Persian took in Hero's perplexed form standing in the doorway, his eyes widened. His gaze, travelling from Hero to Erik and back, suddenly held uncharted depths of sadness, frustration and disappointment.

Hero could not understand the horror in his voice as he whispered, "Not again, my friend, surely."

Erik growled something under his breath. "I see you still have as much faith in me as you ever did. No, if you must know_, friend. Not_ again! Not again _at all_! Not that it's any of your affair, Daroga!"

The Persian's expression now became utterly baffled, as though he were attempting a puzzle the solution for which would always be just a step beyond him.

"I assure you," Erik continued, voice dripping acid, "I have had no hand in abducting this beastly girl!"

Hero started at this. "Abducting?" she repeated in amused bewilderment as she stepped into the room. "No, I should certainly hope not. It would have been the most passive attempt at abduction ever to have taken place!"

The Persian was staring at her now as if she were quite out of her mind, his eyebrows raised. "You are the young lady from the shop. The one with the puzzle box. You'll forgive me, but your name quite escapes me."

"Winterwood," Hero supplied, inclining her head in recognition. She remembered quite well. She had an excellent memory for faces. He had told her about the Opera Ghost and the singer the ghost had loved.

"You have yet to come for the rest of you payment, mademoiselle Winterwood," said the Persian pointedly, still looking around for traces of abduction. He knew too well the persuasive powers of Erik's voice.

Hero smiled wryly. "I have been quite occupied at the _Opera_. But you needn't worry – I shall come. You have the advantage over me, monsieur. You have my name, but I don't have yours."

"Forgive me! You are quite right. I am Nadir Khan. As you are aware, I am the proprietor of an antique shop here in Paris."

Hero shook his proffered hand politely. She regarded him with unsettling solemnity. "Then I am pleased to formally meet you, monsieur Khan. But I expect you are much more than a humble shopkeeper. When we met previously, you mentioned that you were once a chief of police. And, of course, our current location is not to be ignored."

"Daroga, you know my _guest_?"

"Erik is trying to make you feel guilty, monsieur Khan, but you need not heed him. I'm not an invited guest either, as Erik will be happy to tell you. I too have quite imposed myself on his hospitality."

Nadir found her conspiratorial smile surprisingly infectious. "The mademoiselle came by my shop not too long ago, Erik, to make a business transaction."

"I see." Erik's voice had lost none of its chill. "And what is it that you want with me, Daroga, that has brought you tramping all over my house?"

Nadir continued to look unperturbed. "I simply came to see how you were. You cannot deny a certain tendency to hole up in here, Erik."

"What you mean is that you have come to see whether I have been behaving myself?" asked Erik snidely.

The Persian shrugged.

"Ah, then you are a friend," said Hero. She pointedly ignored Erik's disdainful snort.

"I like to think so, at least, mademoiselle."

"Well, then I have quite a bone to pick with you, monsieur Khan."

Nadir started.

"You need not look so puzzled: the reason seems quite clear. I must make plain to you your failing in the way of being a friend to Erik. Between spending his time bashing on his piano and harassing _Opera_ staff, it seems Erik has found no time to eat and most likely to sleep, either. While his is certainly an involved social schedule, of the sort that would make a _debutante _queasy, it seems to me that it is your duty to tell him when he is being a goose."

"_Mademoiselle!_" roared Erik "You forget yourself!" He did not bother adding that he had not been playing the piano.

Nadir did not flinch at this outburst, though Hero noticed the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth.

"Not at all." The lady gave the Phantom an unruffled little smile and carried on with her scold. "Now, I do, of course, understand that in light of Erik's rather _taciturn_ temperament, it might on occasion be difficult to prevail upon him, so I cannot hold you entirely responsible. But it is a failing none the less, monsieur. Well. Not to worry! Now that I am here, you may expect the situation to be taken well in hand. I find that I am immune to Erik's misanthropy."

The Persian waited for Erik's next explosion and was surprised to witness only a put-upon sigh.

"You had better make no reply to that Daroga. Mademoiselle Winterwood is quite determined to drive me to murder and whatever you say next is certain to push my temper quite over the edge. I suppose, mademoiselle, it will do no good to warn you to keep you nose to your own affairs while you are still in full possession of it?"

"No good at all – and I expect to remain in possession of my nose for quite some time to come. My mother says it's my best feature, you know. It may be my only chance at a respectable match.'' Her eyes were laughing at him again.

Nadir was amused at the strange tableau. He thought that he may well like mademoiselle Winterwood. He had been quite concerned over Erik's return to the _Opera_, and even more so when Erik had once again taken up his solitude and the mantle of Opera Ghost. Nadir was not getting any younger, and he did not think he was likely to survive another disaster.

Coming down to the fifth basement to check on his old friend, Nadir had not known quite what to expect. His years of close association with Erik had taught him that the Trapdoor Lover was volatile at best. He had certainly not thought to find mademoiselle Winterwood in the middle of Erik's sitting room. And he had not expected that the lady would give him a talking-to for letting Erik carry on as he had always done.

The Daroga wondered what the young woman had meant about taking the situation well in hand, and how she imagined any such sentiment would make him _not_ worry. Still, he reasoned, she seemed aware of the imminent danger in which she placed herself, even if she also seemed entirely unruffled by it. Perhaps some unexpected good might yet come of this curious situation.

All the same, he thought he had better make certain she had not been stolen.

"Are you satisfied, Daroga? Then I'll thank you to be on your way. I have had just about all the company I can stand for one day," the Opera Ghost said coolly.

"Well that won't do!" exclaimed Hero. "Monsieur Khan has not had any refreshments yet. Tea? Or do you prefer coffee? Do have a seat."

She left him in the room with Erik, and they sat in tense silence while the young woman prepared coffee. Nadir wondered if he had done some unexpected harm to an already fragile friendship by questioning mademoiselle Winterwood's presence in the house by the lake. He was unsure whether the friendship could survive much more, though he and Erik seemed somehow irrevocably bound together by their shared past. The Daroga did not like to think of those days.

No, there had been no other way _but_ to question it, he concluded at last, with a reluctant sigh.

He did not get an opportunity to speak with Hero in private until she had reappeared holding a pot of coffee and sent Erik to the kitchen for the cups and biscuits, explaining that she had been unable to locate a tray. Nadir was never certain if she had done so intentionally and he was very surprised when Erik obliged her by going to fetch the cups s she had asked him to do.

"Why are you here, mademoiselle? You do not appear to have been brought to this house against your will. Has he some sort of hold of you? A promise of fame on the opera stage, perhaps?"

She turned her unsettlingly direct gaze on him again, though he thought she seemed genuinely surprised. "The opera stage? How diverting! No, indeed. I think you will find, monsieur, that I am not now nor will I ever be an opera diva. I have neither the voice nor the inclination. As to abductions, I think we are quite clear on that point."

"They why come here, to have tea in the dark with a dangerous recluse? For he is dangerous, mademoiselle, make no mistake."

"I shall have coffee, monsieur. And it is not at all dark." With affected innocence, Hero looked around at the candles.

Nadir frowned, regarding her with the wary eyes of the former head of police. The young lady was much more than she appeared. And he could not begin to guess at what game she might be playing. He could only hope it would not end with the _Garnier_ in flames again.

Erik reappeared at that moment and Nadir had no opportunity to speak further, though his eyes were often thoughtfully fixed on Hero's face. She did not appear to notice, or else chose not to.

"And how do you find your employment at the _Opera_, mademoiselle?" the Persian asked Hero, as though they were seated in one of the many cafes surrounding the opera house.

"Oh, it's very different from the sort of thing I am used to. So very chaotic! Though I must say, it can be very informative. I think the staff of the National Opera has got to be the most socially informed body in France."

"If you are referring to your ballet friends' penchant for gossip, then it is certainly formidable, even if it is only distantly related to the real world," Erik said dryly.

"They really are much more than you make them out to be, Erik. But yes, I suppose their stories can be a bit farfetched. Since starting work for the costume mistress, I have heard the most unbelievable tales of hauntings and ghosts and eyes glowing in the dark. Very silly – I'm certain there can be no truth in any of it."

"_Touche._"

Hero bowed her head in acknowledgement, the corners of her mouth curling slightly upwards. "Why, just recently, I heard tell of an upcoming social event – a ball to be held in two weeks' time. I understand the guest list is to be very interesting and tickets near-impossible to get. It is to be the grandest party Paris has seen all year."

"Ah, yes! I know something of that, also!" said Nadir. "A masquerade, if I am not mistaken. Hosted at a _chateau_ just outside of Paris by the Comte de…but I find I cannot recall his name."

"De Chance, I believe," supplied Hero, taking a careful sip of her coffee.

"Yes, that's the one! I have never seen him myself, but I understand he is quite a charming fellow."

"I am confident many would tell you the count is a veritable darling of Paris society."

"And you have had occasion to meet this comte?" Erik asked. Nadir turned to watch the Opera Ghost curiously.

"I have, once. In London." She did not volunteer any more information.

"And I suppose then, you mean to attend this masquerade and see your friend?" There was a curious tension evident in Erik' posture. Hero met his gaze.

"I might, at that. A friend of mine means to procure tickets."

"How very fortunate you are in your friends. Perhaps you had best be off to visit your suitor, then, lest he should decide to escort some other charming companion to the party."

Hero broke off a piece of thin biscuit and popped it in her moth unhurriedly before deigning to answer. "I imagine that if I had such a fickle suitor, I might. Though I also imagine that if I had any suitor at all, he would not be so fickle that I would be so easily ousted from his affections. The gentleman in question, however, is _not_ my suitor. Merely a childhood friend. I can't imagine why you would care, Erik."

Neither could Erik. He supposed it was not at all unusual for young women to be courted by young gentlemen. He had come across enough trysts in the darker corners of the opera to know that. And he could not understand why the idea of mademoiselle Winterwood having such a young man agitated him as much as it did. He had known her for a very short time and, already, she had proven herself completely insufferable. He certainly had no designs of his own upon her: the very notion was laughable. What reason had he to feel irritated?

"You would be mistaken to suppose I care. I have no interest in your private affairs."

This statement was not as true as he would have liked it to be. Perhaps it was simply that he was still suffering from aftershocks following his last disastrous attempt at courtship. After all, hadn't _she_ claimed that her absurd viscount was nothing but a childhood friend? If Hero noticed his sudden stillness, she did not remark upon it.

The conversation moved on and it was a while until Erik spoke again.

"Since you have seen fit to make your way down here, Daroga, I assume you have brought with you what I have written you about?"

Hero watched carefully as Nadir seemed to freeze and stare at his host. There appeared to be some sort of tense, unspoken, debate between the two men. Erik won in the end, however, and the Persian nodded dully, producing a small mahogany box from the pocket of his immaculate frock coat. It was shallow and long, and its outward appearance gave no clue as to the possible contents.

"Erik – " Nadir began, only to be cut off by the other man.

"Not a word, Daroga. I warn you, I am not in the mood to hear you out. I am well aware of your sentiments, and I choose not to heed them. There is nothing else to be said on this point."

Hero watched the box disappear in Erik's pocket, wondering what could have put Nadir Khan so much on edge.

The visit did not last very long past this point, and Nadir was quick to make his excuses and leave. The strange tension between the two men was difficult to ignore and Hero found herself greatly intrigued.


End file.
